


Dames and Dragons

by Beckandcall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Academia, Angst, Dragons, F/M, Humour, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-02-13 04:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 94,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2137167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckandcall/pseuds/Beckandcall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-war. Romania. Charlie is distracting himself with his favourite fire-breathing monsters, and an unlikely visitor descends to wreck havoc, academia and Slytherin angst all over the place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Charlie Weasely rubbed his eyes with one hand. By the light of his wand he could make out the differing scribbles of his numerous siblings- letters that he really knew he should reply to.

His Mother's beseeching message lay atop the mountain of curled, smudged paper, looking especially guilt-inducing. Not that this was anything new, her letters had always had that effect. Charlie realized that she didn't mean to, but the endless comparisons between each of his siblings left a bitter taste. Not exactly easy to compete when one brother will probably become Minister of Magic, another has married the world's most perfect woman, and the youngest are partners in crime with the Saviour of the Wizarding World. Merlin's Beard, even the twins who were meant to be the family slackers will probably end up the most successful businessmen on Diagon Alley.

 _Not the twins_ , Charlie reminded himself, his gut clenching. Just George.

It had been worse since then. Since losing Fred. The letters which had always had a subtext of disappointment in them- the silent pleas to come home, to do something more traditional, to find a girl… There was an emptiness now, echoing abandonment. The old, carefree replies he used to send back no longer seemed sufficient. No one wants to hear a comic tale about Dragon Dung when the only true comic in the family is gone. No one wants to hear about a death-defying escape when not all of them had managed to escape. No one, especially not Charlie, wanted to read his actual letters. The ones that admitted he was thankful for escaping to Romania, how it got him away from the paralysis of home and having to look at the boy who was partly responsible for his brother's death.

He knew it wasn't Harry's fault. Harry was just a kid. A famous, world-saving, family-endangering kid.

Charlie remembered the first time he met the Boy Who Lived thinking he looked more like the Boy Who Narrowly Avoided Starvation. He didn't look cared for, quite the opposite. Yet he looked so blissfully happy wandering around the Burrow amid the cheap furniture, bearing his Weasely jumper with pride. A kid who thinks a Weasely jumper is the best gift anyone can get is not someone with naturally a lot of malice in them. Charlie scratched his own navy jumper thoughtfully. But malice or no, his presence in their lives had led to each member of his family being endangered. Father's life, Bill's face, Ron's entire childhood, Ginny got embroiled in Merlin knows what in Second year, George's ear and… Fred. They lost Fred.

Everyone sings Harry Potter's praises, yet they all seem to forget the foolish family who adopted and died for him.

Not for the first time did Charlie despair at living in a family of Gryffindors. Stupid, self-sacrificing Gryffindors. And not for the first time did he remind himself that they would have all done it again.

This didn't make the replies any easier though. The mention of Harry in his Mother's constant letters felt like a usurpation. Where in the past she would have been ranting about Fred and George turning the neighbour's cat purple, or filling the Charms corridor with five headed frogs, or extorting fellow students with their Weasely Wizard Wheazes… now it was how _Harry_ was doing in Auror training, and how she thinks _Harry_ may propose to Ginny once she's finished her final year.

Charlie suddenly realized that he'd accidently set his Mother's letter on fire.

"Char, you look a bit… fired up," said a germanic voice from the doorway. Marcus- blond, blue-eyed and built like a cross between a bull and seraphim- swaggered in and launched himself on the top bunk of the bed. When they had first become roommates they used the Babel spell and a lot of creative gesturing to communicate with limited success, but after a few years of working together the pair had managed converse more smoothly with a bastardized mix of German, English and filthy jokes.

"Writing letters back home," he replied rolling his eyes. "Lest they think I'm dead again."

Marcus gave a large rumbling laugh. "Oh please, leave it a few weeks- I beg you. I almost pissed myself when The Dragon Lady got the howler accusing her of doing away with you. It's the first time I've ever seen Wynne look slightly less than absolutely terrifying."

Charlie gave a hollow laugh. "Well, my mother makes Wynne look like a toothless Drakeling." (This was saying quite a bit, especially as their boss- a hardy, middle-aged woman with steely eyes and a steelier personality- was said to have once been carried off by a dragon with nothing more than an empty travel bag and a hard-back version of Fantastic Beasts. The tale goes that the dragon brought her back to her nest where –with the help of her old school textbook- she asserted dominance over the three drakelings, and managed to convince the brood mother that she was one of her young. Apparently a team of wizarding explorers found her a fortnight later gorging on wolf meat, but no worse for wear).

"Yunno, if your mother if still giving you a hard time about your glamourous bachelor lifestyle… you could always let her know that I have two beautiful ladies lined up for your pleasure."

"If you try and set me up with Aoife or your sister once more, I will feed you to Norberta," promised Charlie, only half-joking. Aoife was lovely, but a co-worker. After one or two rather awkward dates, they decided that they were really better off being friends. (This was only partly based on their intense support for differing Quidditch teams.) And Marcus' sister… was probably –bar Fleur- the most attractive woman Charlie had ever laid eyes on. She had a very glamourous job that had something to do with Wizarding legislation in Switzerland, loved the outdoors, and didn't mind that his job was vaguely dangerous. Sadly she looked exactly like Marcus.

Luckily she was not too put out that Charlie broke things off, citing she knew he was a lone wolf and now she was free to date the Italian Minister of Magic. In fact, toward the end of their conversation Charlie had the disconcerting feeling that actually she had been breaking up with him the whole time… also he wasn't so sure he agreed about being called a lone wolf. He liked people. He just liked dragons more.

"Haha, no no. I am not going to try that ever again. This first girl you will like. From your home country, bit of a gothic thing going on. Shocking eyes. Very hot. The second is a bit more exotic. Big girl, but beautiful. Fiery temper."

"… To be clear, you're talking about dragons aren't you? Not actual girls." Charlie replied, feeling his mood lift already. Actual girls made him a bit anxious sometimes, but dragons… at least you knew they wanted to bite off your head. With girls you could never be sure.

"Of course. The only girls worth knowing are the ones that breath fire."

"A… Hebridean Black?" he inquired, Marcus grinned broadly in response. "And… describing a dragon as big and angry doesn't quite narrow it down."

"Looks a bit like Baldric, and has eyes to match with your golden locks," answered a female voice followed by the imposing figure of Wynne Warbeck, leather-clad with silver hair pulled tight back.

"Speaking of women worth knowing…" muttered Marcus. Wynne threw him a cool look.

"A Ukrainian Ironbelly?" Charlie replied swiftly before Marcus' joking got them on Dung removal. Again. "Awesome, I always wanted to see one of them- But aren't they a bit large for our reserve?"

Wynne nodded. "We'll be releasing the Ridgebacks into the wild this week, so Aoife will be taking a team to track their initial movements around Norway. That means we should have a bit of extra space… and that you will be responsible for our three guests."

"A third dragon?" Charlie said, infinitely more enthusiastic than he was mere moments ago regarding his family's letters.

"No," Wynne said shooting another cold look at Marcus, who had obviously failed to pass on the full message. "The dragons have been rescued by the British Beast Division. Apparently some Death Eater was keeping them in his basement as an ill-thought out and forgotten weapon. They've been in the hands of one of Newt Scamander's academics- they're writing some paper on dragons or some nonsense… Your job is to look after the academic. Answer questions. Make sure she doesn't get eaten. The usual drill."

Charlie looked a touch confused. "Why me? Shouldn't someone higher up be doing this?"

Wynne shrugged. "Aoife's away. Marcus is a dolt. Baldric will probably lead to some sort of sexual harassment case, and if they don't breath fire I'm not interested. Don't complain, Goldilocks- two dragons in return for a little babysitting duty is still a win."

With that their fearless, fear-inducing leader left. Charlie sighed. She was right. Two dragons was awesome, especially as they may be able to find a breeding partner for at least one…

"So what's the newbie's name?"

Marcus, distracted by treating his new burns, looked up. "Oh Rose, or Patrice, or something. I think we should call the new dragons Aphrodite and Clytemnestra. Apparently the Ironbelly is _six tonnes_ …"

Charlie nodded wistfully, turning back to his letters. His Mother's and Percy's had been put to one side (the latter inducing so much boredom by paragraph two that either he give up or fall asleep). The note from his Father was brief, but relatively positive- the promotion was going well. Ron's letter was so short that one could almost mistake it for curt, and Ginny's handwriting was more frivolous than legible (something he knew she did on purpose). Bless Bill, who kept his letters light, direct and hopeful.

Ignoring them all, he found a new sheet of parchment. His mood had lightened, and he had worked out exactly what he wanted to say and who he wanted to say it to.

_Dear George,_

_You're going to think me mad. But I am over the moon, under the troll bridge, in love. And the crazy thing is I haven't even met her yet. Well… them. Yes, there are two of them. (Jealousy is a natural emotion. Feel it. Embrace it. Please be sure to let me know all the intricacies of your envy, it will only make my impossible happiness all the more impossible). It's a modern relationship but I think we can make it work. They're a little on the curvier side, with foul tempers, big beautiful teeth and an intense desire to rip off my limbs and burn me to pieces…_

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy felt unhappy. It wasn't a new sensation, in fact it almost seemed to be her default emotion since sixth year- if not since birth.

Usually though it was overridden by anger, guilt, injustice, longing, confusion, loathing, helplessness. However standing on a train platform next to the man she once loved, as the rain dripped half-heartedly upon them, she simply felt sad. Her trunks were packed, and her owl stowed- all that was left was goodbye. A sentiment that felt infinitely unfair. Especially now there weren't many to say goodbye to.

Millicent sniffed. "I'm going to miss you, Pans. If you don't write sarcastic letters to me that deride my existence, I'll be certain you're dead and either send out a search party or have an actual party. Perhaps both."

Pansy leant forward and gave her a hug. "If I do end up mauled by beasts or locals, do know that I've left a sizeable sum of money for you. Sadly my will only bequeaths it so that it can be used to build a life-sized shrine of myself that will follow you around a pelt lovable insults at you till the end of your days."

Millicent, towering over her as usual, gave her a smile that looked as if it were almost about to wobble into wet tears before stepping back and retaking the hand of Theodore Nott, her fiancé.

"Honestly though, Parkinson, keep yourself safe out there," Nott said, giving her a serious look. They hadn't really spent much time together at school, but by a method of sad subtraction and time spent standing over dead friends at rather empty funerals, he had become one of her closest companions.

"You too, Theo. If you need anything…"

"I know. Legal advice, illicit substances and witty repartee- Pansy Parkinson is the witch to call."

"Excuse me," Draco said indignantly. "I believe those are my specialties, you plebs."

"Bribes don't could as legal advice, Draco," Pansy said with a smile. Draco trying to reclaim the lime-light –even though half-heartedly- was a dramatic improvement to the boy who sat in his mansion and patiently waited for his life to end.

"Quiet, wench. I am the wittiest and best looking of you all. And I shall never forgive you for abandoning us in such a fashion."

"But not witty or handsome enough to make me stay! Alas!"

Millicent coughed, and though being somewhat terrifying at six foot, she managed to look as fragile as she did that day Pansy had discovered her crying in the bathrooms after some sodding Gryffindor had bowed to her in the corridor pretending she was a hippogriff. From that day they had been fast friends, especially as Pansy had jinxed the student so hard he limped for a week. No one crosses a Slytherin without retribution.

"Anyway, we best be off for a dress fitting. Be safe, and for Merlin's sake be back for the wedding. We love you, Pansy."

"Love you too, Milly," she replied, her eyes welling treacherously. Along the platform station she could see Luna Lovegood, her (eugh) colleague, saying her own goodbyes. Thankfully, her temporarily tear-impaired vision stopped her from perceiving who the figures were. She really rather would not know or be reminded of their part in the dismantlement of their lives.

Theodore and Millicent, hand-in-hand, walked off to disapparate in a more covert location, leaving Draco and her alone.

The only one missing from their party who was alive and not in jail was Blaise, whose mother had sensibly emigrated at the most opportune time in the war. Now he did a mysterious, glamourous job for mysterious, glamourous people. On more alcoholic nights, before they drift off into bitter memory and Pansy wishing Draco would kiss her (or at least look less unhappy), they pair would half-joke that Blaise had probably become a high-class male prostitute. They stopped joking once it became apparent that this may have become an actual, quite tragic possibility. Sometimes they get letters from Blaise, but mostly they don't.

Four left. A number that could drive anyone insane with sadness.

"Who would have thought that those two would end up together?" Draco said in a low voice, looking at the disappearing silhouettes. "I mean Theo has always had an unusual taste in women, though I never thought he would go for someone who could kill him with her bare hands."

"I think they're quite sweet," Pansy replied. It was an honest sentiment. Though mostly their togetherness seemed to make her feel even more alone. Following the war, engagements had spread through their year like a weird monogamous STD. (Not that any of the Slytherins had been invited to the weddings.) Everyone seizing the day. Though Pansy really thought of it as seizing the first one you can find. Desperation, she reassured herself, it's just desperation.

…But then why do I feel so desperate?

"Pansy, the secret romantic- who would have guessed?" Draco said giving a wan smile, his blond hair sweeping over his eyes as he looked down at his shoes. "Having said that I fell for a woman who could kill with just a look- so who am I to judge them?" His gray eyes flicked up to hers momentarily, crinkling at the sides.

Pansy's heart tore a little. He doesn't mean it in that way. He's speaking about the past. He needs you too much as a friend for you to say something stupid. He has no other friends.

"You always did have impeccable taste," Pansy replied smoothly, her face an easy mask. Hiding her love had become a habit, though a painful one.

Draco attempted a true smile for her, though it came out twisted. His pale hair was perfectly coiffed, and on his shoulders balanced beautiful, midnight-black robes reeking of wealth. From a distance he looked good. Close up you could see the cracks. His pale skin was more wan than ethereal, and his trim, quidditch-physique was too lean as if a brisk wind would dissolve him. Even his speech was blunted. That humour and wit that once commanded the whole Slytherin table no longer had the confidence or presence it once did. His mind that once whip sharp was now distracted by the dead, and the endless legal battles. The guilt should have be enough punishment, having to continue once all your friends and family are dead or incarcerated should have been enough punishment.

"Pansy, we are all honestly going to be alright," Draco said softly, his pale hand reaching out to envelope her own. It was perhaps the first time he had been the one comforting her.

"I know that," she lied.

Draco used to be the star the whole of Slytherin revolved around. He came up with the ideas, he kept them in order, he was the one who looked after them. (Yes, occasionally they had to endure his frankly weird obsession with Potter, and yes, he was more of a paranoid dictator than a benevolent leader- but by god, he was their paranoid dictator. And one thing Slytherin do well is loyalty, especially blind loyalty). Yet sometime in sixth year, they all seemed to have lost him. They were cast adrift, and had to endure alone. Without him the year fractured.

So Pansy stepped up. Slytherins looked after their own, and with no one left to take care of them, it fell to her.

His shoes were not the easiest to fill. Without someone feeding them instructions, Crabbe and Goyle started thinking for themselves- and frankly their thoughts were disturbing. Pansy had to start protecting from the inside, as well as the out. In the past all they had to worry about was the other houses hating them. In seventh year… everything was fear, and everything was uncertainty. So naturally, Pansy had to look after everyone.

Yet even throughout that year… Pansy felt she still revolved around Draco, her dying star. Soon perhaps to be an empty space.

"No, you don't," he said slightly more forcefully. His hand shook in her grasp and those grey eyes cast downwards, evading her. "Slytherins look after their own. No one else out there is going to. There may not be many of us left here, but we'll stay together and keep each other safe. All of us are far more worried about you. I mean- Dragons, Pansy? Really?"

Pansy could not help giving a low laugh. She felt off-kilter and a little delirious standing at that train platform. It was almost like going back to Hogwarts, if not worse. A midnight train holding a collection of Magizoology students, and somewhere two fire-breathing monstrosities, waiting to throw them off into the wilderness of Merlin knows where. Some would stay at the dragon sanctuary, and some would be off to Beauxbatons or Greece to have a more pleasant, luxurious field trip studying Winged Horses.

Dammit, if it wasn't for those unicorns in that one half decent Fantastical Creatures lesson, she would have spent much longer looking for a prominent Ministry job. Not that "Slytherin traitors" were among their top picks for the M.o.M graduate scheme.

Yet here she was, going down the academic route- risking dragon dung for a snowballs chance in hell to work with unicorns. Pansy, famous as the girl who caused Hufflepuffs to shake in their boots (not that this was difficult) and made Goyle cry when he got too handsy, was a push-over for unicorns. Sometimes she hated herself for it, but oh well…

There were other reasons, of course. Getting a job really was an issue, despite her grades, and getting away was tempting. Running from the train wreck that her life had become seemed impossible. Yet such an unlikelihood had somehow made her dream career seem like a strange possibility.

One thing would make her stay. But she wasn't about to ask Draco to say it. (She may have an embarrassing fondness for unicorns, but at least she had some pride.)

"You know me, Draco, excitement and death-defying danger are what I'm about."

"Hilarious. I do know you, Pans, and you're more 'champagne, diamonds and subtle revenge' than 'crash, bang, please set me on fire it would be the most fascinating academic experience-"

At that point, a waft of dreamy blond hair drifted into their presence. Pansy, who had been momentarily delighting in the final goodbye, tried not to look too distraught when Draco dropped her hand and adopted a cold, faraway sneer. Others would think him rude –and indeed, he was being terminally rude- but Pansy recognized the classic Draco "Please don't speak to me lest I crumble before you with guilty apologies and heartfelt woe." Pride (and social awkwardness) stood between him and such outbursts, but there was no doubt he felt such guilt.

"Hello, Pansy," whispered Luna Lovegood, looking disconcertingly at Pansy's left earlobe for no obvious reason. "I just wanted to let you know that we're sharing a room on the train… oh, and that we're off in about a minute. Oh hello, Draco. I like your ring. Very shiny. Like a Grossbert Beetle." And with that she was off, wandering roughly in the direction of the sapphire-coloured train.

Draco, temporarily flabbergasted that someone had spoken to him without the words "murderer," "Azkaban," or worse, stumbled a thank you.

"Guess I better be off," Pansy muttered, looking distantly at the bizarre figure of Luna Lovegood. She had no idea what a Grossbert beetle was or what half the things Luna spoke about actually meant. Either Pansy was grossly uneducated on the subject of magizoology… or Luna was mental. Pansy was not quite sure which answer she feared the most.

She took a last look at the wan but still striking face of her best friend. A dusting of purple shadows bruised his eyes and his face was still too pointy to be called handsome, and yet she still felt that familiar longing. A sickening tug on her heart. "Goodbye, Draco. If you need anything…"

"I know, Pans," he replied, and for a second he looked as if he was going to turn and disappear off into the grey of King's Cross station without another word. But then he paused and raised his hand to the thick blackness of her hair, leant down and placed his lips briefly on her forehead. "I'll keep an eye on everyone while your gone. Be careful." And with that he departed, leaving Pansy abandoned and alone and wondering who on earth was left that was going to look after him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Pansy felt the train move beneath her. No longer north to Hogwarts, but south to cross the channel to Europe. A stop in Paris, a stop Serbia, then a division between those lucky enough to go to Greece and those unlucky enough to pull the short straw for Romania.

She sighed, hating herself for hoping. The chances looked good. Horribly good. Two places for equine, and just one small, life-threatening placement for dragons.

The hot cloud her breath left on the window evaporated leaving a pale, strong-featured face with an unfortunate upturned nose looking back at her. Her eyes and hair were so dark that they barely left a reflection. God, even her blank expression looked unconvinced at the odds. Despairingly, Pansy turned away from the depressing sight.

Luna, her long hair hanging like a pale waterfall, was humming absently to herself seemingly content. In one hand she was using her wand to knit a long, multi-coloured and rather wonky scarf, while nibbling at a chocolate frog with the other. Wordlessly, she proffered a chocolate frog box towards Pansy.

 _Huh_?

If this had been a different time, Pansy may have ignored this strange act of sharing or even departed with a sharp comment. Having said that, she was rather hungry, no one else was around to see this, and it was perhaps the first kind act someone had directed towards her for… a disheartening amount of time.

"Thank you," Pansy said quietly, quickly nipping at a frog's head. She hated the way they moved around, and found the whole act of eating them much less guilt-inducing with a swift decapitation. "You do realize that many… in fact, most of the public and your friends see both my house and I as traitors, murderers and utterly beneath contempt?"

"Oh yes," replied Luna brightly. "My friend Ronald says all the Slytherins should be rounded up and turned into house elves. Or thrown into a volcano. Or be set upon by giant spiders. He keeps changing his mind. "

Pansy felt suddenly quite queasy. Ron Weasely had a say now. His voice mattered as one of the over-achieving heroes of the war. Perhaps worse, his voice reflected popular sentiment. Two years after the war and people still wanted retribution. They still wanted blood. They were just working out how to get it.

"And you do realize that I am the one who spoke up to say we should give Harry over to… _him_?"

"Of course. I was there. You said it very clearly."

"But instead of making me into a house elf you'd rather feed me sweets?"

Luna let out a tinkling cackle, continuing to wave her wand to a jaunty beat in front of the lengthening woolen monstrosity. "Well, I did poison them first."

Pansy, who had just swallowed the frog's arm, turned a strange shade of green-white.

"Oh Pansy! You should see your face. I was joking," said Luna, still giggling dreamily. Realising Pansy looked unconvinced and likely to shove her fingers down her throat, Luna plucked the half-eaten amphibian from her palm and bit of a leg. "See?"

Pansy's gob-smacked look of confusion and fear did not quite manage to leave her features for some time.

"O-okay. But um…. Still, it's not exactly behaviour I've become used to," she responded stiltingly. _Nor behaviour I deserve_ , she thought, hating herself more. Spinning off into guilt because some weirdo who puts her shoes on the wrong feet gave you a sweet. Pathetic.

"People often think I'm strange. According to Harry, I'm an eccentric. Ronald just thinks I'm a weirdo. He's not the nicest person sometimes, but he's still nice."

"Right," responded Pansy, not quite sure what the correct response to this was.

At that moment, the door to their compartment opened to allow two girls to spill in, giggling in an ungodly cacophony. Pansy recalled them vaguely, both were in Luna's year –one in Ravenclaw and the other in Hufflepuff. The Ravenclaw girl (Delilah Something?) saw Luna and her face went through a strange metamorphosis of emotion. Initially shock, worry… and then a strangely bright look of happiness, rather akin to a chipmunk on sugar and illegally imported substances. The Hufflepuff (and Pansy wasn't even ashamed to admit she didn't recall her name) saw Pansy and froze with a look of abject terror.

"Luna!" squealed Delilah, her ponytail bouncing in a disconcertingly chirpy manner. Pansy recognized the distinctly fake tones of a girl about to suck up as if her life depended on it. "It's so good to see you! And…" Her voice trailed off just as she was about to greet Pansy.

Pansy turned her head to the window just in time. _Snub before you can be snubbed_ , her mother often said.

"Hello, Delilah," greeted Luna absently. "Gertrude, you look like you're possessed by a Splicklewright. Congratulations, it's supposed to be very lucky. Or a symptom for hairloss, but I wouldn't worry though- what's a little hairloss to being the vessel for a protected species?"

Gertrude, her mouth hanging unattractively open, let out a strange gargle as she was caught between her terror at seeing Pansy and her confusion of Luna. Pansy almost let out a snort of laughter. Luna was either just as insane as everyone said, or she had the world's sharpest wit when it came to insulting people. Parkinson was beginning to feel slightly fond of the girl.

Delilah coughed, and elbowed Gertrude to sit down. The pair practically squashed themselves in the furthest corner away from Pansy. It seemed that no one was going to enquire what on earth a Spicklewart was, probably from previous experience with dealing with Luna.

The three managed to thaw the strange tension in the compartment, with Delilah asking incessant question of Luna and Luna reply in the lax way of hers. Many of the questions seemed to involve trying to stimulate gossip about Harry and Neville- but Luna's answers were too vague to be truly titillating. Gertrude eventually managed to re-hinge her jaw and join in with pathetic enthusiasm. By some sort of mutual agreement it seemed that Pansy was both being excluded and excluding herself. Dismally, she watched the British countryside pass by and half-heartedly daydreamed how _truly awful_ it would be if one of the dragons got out and chewed off Delilah and Gertrude's gossiping heads.

"So…" Delilah began, leaning forward. "How is Neville Longbottom anyway? I heard that you two are rather _close_ nowadays. Gert and I have taken to calling him the Frog Prince, because… well, _you_ remember what he was like at school (and he did have that ridiculous toad!) but he has really blossomed since then, hasn't he? So brave, and incredibly good looking- don't you think?"

Pansy, her curiosity peaked, turned an ear to the coven in the corner. Her main memory of Neville Longbottom was that time he put his elbow into a beaker of Assiduous Acid… and of course, the time when he cut of the head of that giant snake thus helping save humanity in some strange roundabout way. Pansy herself was not quite convinced that killing someone's pet was entirely heroic, but everyone else deemed it to be quite necessary. Then again, 'everyone else' always tended to be rather moronic.

Luna shrugged, her hand still guiding the magic knitting needles. The scarf must now have reached roughly thirteen feet and was making a rather awkward pile on the floor. No one commented on it. "Neville's the person he always has been."

"Of course," responded Delilah smoothly. "It's just so brave everything he did in seventh year. Unlike some."

The withering looks being shot at her now continued without any shame. Pansy could feel her cheeks start to burn, and her teeth clench. Three years ago and she would have cursed Delilah for just breathing in her direction, but right now all she wanted to do was close her eyes and disappear.

"And Harry," Gertrude crooned, her bravery returned now she realized that they vastly outnumbered the lone Slytherin traitor. "An Auror soon. Still attempting to protect us now, even after all this time."

Bad habits die hard, apparently.

Luna nodded agreeably. "And he assures me that the Rotfang Conspiracy is a total lie- which I'm very relieved about, especially as I would hate for Harry to inflict gum disease on anyone."

"…Yes. That would be… bad?" said Gertrude, blankly.

At this point the pair seemed to have realized that conversation with Luna was not going to reap the gossip and logic that they were hoping for, so swiftly changed to the subject of the placements, namely the ones involving winged horses. They nattered about Abraxans near Beauxbatons, Granions in Greece… Pansy almost crumbled. She desperately desired to join in and talk about her time at her Uncle Acheron's Aethonan stables, how she packed her jodhpurs just in case, and how hopelessly wonderful it would be to study them.

Her nails left tiny half-moons on the palm of her hands. The hateful glances being shot at her let her know they knew exactly who she was, and how unwelcome she should feel.

Fame. It had always appealed to Pansy. Perhaps it had rubbed off from Draco, or it had been instilled in her even before then… but the glitz and attention had always attracted her. Recalling how the famous received smiles and praise and deliveries of racing brooms at breakfast, it didn't seem to have a downside.

At school, lacking Cho's looks and Granger's talent, she decided to settle for infamy. The only way to stop being kicked was to kick harder and faster. She ruled Slytherin from the top-down, and beware any of the younger snakes who didn't stay in line. Slytherin was not going to be known as the stupid, losing house- and if she had to hang them upside-down for twenty minutes until they got that idea, then _fine_.

She recalled the Triwizard competitors and their partners swirling delicately across the ballroom at the Yule dance. All eyes upon them as they careened in their power, beauty and popularity. She had not felt a drop of jealousy. She had Draco. She had been chosen. And those stolen drops of Firewhisky between stolen kisses and secret smiles tasted exactly like happiness should- sweet and hot and mine.

Fame was never really achieved, but infamy she continued to get spot on. It left an unpleasant taste, the hangover of a mistake that would never quite go away. Who knew that speaking up to give Harry Potter to the Dark Lord was a bad idea? One life in exchange for them all. It seemed fair.

"Luna, which placement are you hoping for?" enquired Tweedle-dum or Tweedle-dee.

"Oh, I didn't put down a preference. Any one of them sounds interesting. Though horses do make me break out in a rash… What about you, Pansy?"

Pansy could not help narrowing her eyes slightly. Luna was obviously an expert in hidden insults, and she could not help but be suspicious that the topsy-turvy girl was trying to lull her into a false sense of security… There was the possibility that Luna was just trying to include her, ignorant to the social currents that opposed this. But Pansy's experience of kindness, cliques and humanity did not quite hold up to this theory.

"Greece- the Granians are the fastest of the _equus volaticus_ , and most fascinating" she forced herself not to stumble, and to look each girl in the eye in turn as she spoke. She may not deserve civility, but she deserved a place here and she'd be damned if anyone thought otherwise. "As you know, the ancient greek wizards oft depended on them as a mode of transport amongst the many islands and mountains of the region. This makes them evolutionally unique as Greece is a Magizoology hotspot, and they were often were used to control the many beast attacks of the time. Therefore unlike most equines, they're pretty much unflappable-"

"And did you learn this while you were torturing first years during Defense Against the Dark Arts, or after?" interrupted Delilah, her eyes burning curiously bright.

"If my memory is correct, Slytherin wasn't the only house who followed the instructions of the Carrows," replied Pansy sweetly, hand subtly reaching for her wand. The Slytherins, however, were the only ones smart enough to work out a way around it.

"No one else _enjoyed_ it," Delilah spat. "What was that oaf called? Crabbe? He almost killed half of the students he was called to 'practice' on."

Oh yes. Vincent. She remembered dealing with him. Always a bad student, always told that pureblood magic and pureblood minds were superior to mudblood… and yet that was never the case, was it? Outstripped and outclassed by everyone, and Troll-level grades despite Draco's occasional efforts. (Mostly these involved removing all of his half-arsed attempts at cheating before going into an exam. " _When will you dunderheads get it? We have Anti-Cheating Quills! The only thing worse than failing is being caught! Imbeciles!_ "). Yet he had one skill, one thing that his years of tempering a vile malevolence against the rest of the school had won him- a talent for torture.

She had asked, begged, threatened, cajoled, bribed, blackmailed and wept to get Vincent to stop. Nothing, not money nor pain nor pleas, would stop him. He was a boy with a talent, a boy with a dream, a boy to whom praise was suddenly given. After the first Defense Against the Dark Arts Class, Pansy had rounded up the pale-looking students, and the weeping first years and told them what was going to happen.

" _Today is not going to happen again," she said to the quiet room, as the emerald light of the lake played across the ceiling. "Today… we had no choice. But tomorrow we do. Next time one of us is told to Cruciatus another student, we fake it. Mispronounce the spell, wave the wand wrongly, make sure you don't have that malevolent feeling they're so desperately keen for us to develop."_

_All the faces looked on at her stonily, some hopeful, most impassive. She took a breath. "And you lot-" she gestured to the quaking first years. "You know how the Cruciatus feels, you know what it looks like when some one is under it. So you better act your socks off when one of us throws a bogus one to you or I will make sure you feel a proficient Cruciatus and not the half-arsed attempts we did today. Agreed?"_

_And the system some how worked. In fact, some of the first years turned out to be rather heroic little actors, and the elders managed to misuse the dark magic so imperceptibly with just a slight slur and drop of the wrist that even Pansy could not tell who was truly performing the curse and who was not._

_She made them all sign a cursed piece of paper to seal the promise (the idea stolen from Dumbledore's Army after seeing the rather too efficient effect it had on Marietta Edgecombe's face). Everyone, even those who looked like they may have enjoyed that day's monstrosities, signed. All except Crabbe. Pansy tried to get around this by telling him the promise only applied to those within the house, and he could terrorize the other houses to his demented, psychopathic heart's content. This was not an idea she was pleased with- but the more students in on the secret, the less likely it would be kept. It wasn't like Slytherin were ever included in Dumbledore's Army, or Neville Longbottom's guerrilla war. Other houses excluded Slytherin to their own detriment, so let them survive on their own._

_And Slytherin was her responsibility now. Snape was distant and no longer looking out for them. Slughorn was almost useless. Draco was gone. The world was uncertain and no one was going to help them. The only people they could trust were each other._

"Crabbe got what was coming to him," was all the reply she would give. The promise on the enchanted parchment was dissolved, but she would never admit to these harpies how they got around the Carrows' "teaching."

"A pity not everyone did. You and Draco deserve each other," Delilha hissed.

Pansy gritted her teeth. No way she would be getting into a Whose Scar is Bigger match. The losing side always failed those bouts, even if their wounds were more fatal.

"How kind of you," Pansy replied instead, forcing a laugh. "I think I deserve someone rich and handsome as well." Rich, handsome, and broken.

Delilah scoffed, and muttered a single, ill-thought out word. " _Deatheater_."

Before she could stop herself Pansy's fist had closed around Delilah's throat, and gave a threatening squeeze.

"Those are dangerous words, Delilah. I thought Ravenclaws were supposed to be intelligent." Pansy whispered, her left hand pointing her wand two inches above the Ravenclaw's eye. _Then again it's Gryffindors who are meant to be brash and idiotic, and look what I'm doing_ … "It is... _ah,_ unwise to throw such accusations around in these perilous times. So if you would be so generous as to direct your gaze from my wand to the wrist beneath it, I think you'll find no evidence of a Dark Mark. Just as the Aurors found no evidence of my Mother or I having involvement with any cell or movement linked with He Who Must Not Be Named. And I think that if months of Ministry Officials interrogating me, threatening my mother and ransacking my home didn't deliver evidence of either of us being Deatheaters, then maybe it wasn't the case now- was it? I may be a Class A bitch, a Slytherin and completely willing to pummel you to smithereens- BUT I AM NOT A DEATHEATER!"

Pansy, with heartbreaking dread, became aware that the door had opened and three wands were being directed at her.

"Hello, Professor Scamander," said Luna. "It's so good to meet you."


	3. Chapter 3

Pansy, her breath coming out in angry puffs like a maddened minotaur, carefully unwound her fingers from Delilah-I’ve-got-a-death-wish’s throat. (Though she made sure to give one last indiscernible warning squeeze).

“Um, good morning, Professor,” she said, trying her best to collect herself as her mind and heart raced. He’s going to chuck me off the course, I’ll be arrested, sent back in shame, oh god just feed me to one of the freaking dragons already… “We were-“

“Just getting to know one another,” interrupted Luna, whose dreamy smile almost looked reassuring. She deftly placed her wand behind her ear and gave the Professor a wide grin. 

The Professor, who looked far too young to hold the title, just blinked and regarded the group as if they were a new and unknown species. He was terribly tall, and looked like an anthropomorphized stick insect. His hair was curly, but rather colourless, and his face had a rather awkward, kindly look that Pansy tended to associate with boring people who lacked a backbone. 

His eyes stayed glued to Luna and (Pansy noted with interest) his ears began to redden.

“Oh, do please call me Rolf,” he said extending his hand to each girl in turn, giving Pansy rather a hard look when it came to her. Ah, dealing with confrontation by ignoring it, Pansy noted, obviously a born teacher. Shaking their hands was also a wise move in terms of getting Delilah and Gertrude to stow their wands.

“I just wanted to come and introduce myself, and give you the introductory notes,” said Professor “Call me Rolf” Scamander, his eyes lingering on Luna, as he unwisely stepped into the cabin and promptly fell over the multicoloured mess that was Luna’s scarf.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” exclaimed Luna. “That’s my Crumple-Horned Snorkack trap.”

The large holes and very unscarf-like nature of the woolen monstrosity suddenly made a lot more sense.

“Well, I can vouch for it’s efficiency,” his said jovially, his face a distinctive ruby colour as the four girls helped him up.  
Reaching into his leather, embossed satchel he brought out four 2-inch thick stacks of bound parchment. 

“I’ve divided up all the placements based on your experience and resumes, though I seem to have lost the piece of paper saying who goes where –I’ll find it before dinner and give it to you all with supplementary notes. In these introductory packs, you’ll find the health and safety forms for each placement as well as the reading lists…”

He droned on for sometime about the four month placements with a chance for extension if the research was fruitful, and how he expected the first month or so just to involve getting to know the animals and schedule- but how everyone should remember that the research was the main aim. Ten thousand words by this point, fifty thousand words by then, submissions to The Journal of Magizoology by this date and the best papers may go into his new book and blah blah blah… Pansy almost nodded off. 

 

 

By the time dinner arrived Pansy had skimmed through the intro pack. The dragon health and safety section took up eighty more pages than the equus volaticus, and contained such gems as “At all times, please remember to keep you limbs out of the dragon’s mouth. If any limbs do become entrapped, do your best to remove them,” and “Please note that dragons are highly dangerous, volatile and unpredictable creatures. Even their dung can, in high quantities, be toxic to humans.”

Dangerous at both ends, Pansy thought dimly. 

The equus volaticus sections did not lift her mood much. She’d already devoured the reading list months ago, and it didn’t exactly contain any new information. 

Dinner was taken in the carriage south of the sleeping area. Already they’d passed Normandy, and in a few hours they would lose their first group to Beauxbatons in the south. The journey had passed in complete silence in Pansy’s cabin as each girl read through the pack and desperately tried to ignore the existence of the others. Pansy was reasonably happy with this situation, but found Luna’s occasional off-tuning humming comforting all the same.

As Pansy made her way, alone, to the dining carriage she did a little mental probability. In his long meandering talk, Call Me Rolf mentioned that due to the unpopularity of the dragon placement he had reduced the number going there to just one (“Having taken months to set up the whole thing, I couldn’t just remove it- Wynne Warbeck would have had my head! Also the research possibilities are astounding...”), but that he may be circulating a few of the students around in order to give them the best experience. The popularity of the equus volaticus - especially in the case of the Abraxans- meant that there was not actually that many research opportunities to go around. Apparently, they had such trouble last year that some students were reduced to studying the possible economical, ecological and theological effect of Abraxans on local weather patterns. (Spoiler alert: there was none).  
Pansy did not especially care about this. She knew enough about the subject to concoct any kind of research topic from the historical influence of equus volaticus, or weigh in on the ongoing metamagical debate on how such large animals (with comparatively small wingspan) even managed to get in the air. 

However, if Luna Lovegood had written down “no preference” on her application sheet, then surely it would mean she was the unlucky one to draw the short straw? Pansy’s budding warmth for the strange little Ravenclaw rocketed astronomically. 

 

 

Pansy settled herself down in the corner of the dining carriage, with her well-thumbed copy of “Fanciful Flights: from Fairies to Phoenixes” and reread the page on Snidgets. Eventually the eleven other ex-Hogwarts students emerged from hiding in their carriages and took their places around the long table in the center of the room. 

Pansy recognized a few of them. Cormac McLaggen was a surprise, as was a rather nauseous-looking Justin Finch-Fletchley. They were the only boys in a rather oestrogen heavy environment. Delilah and Gertrude appeared soon after, shooting dark looks toward Pansy, and placing themselves in the midst of a gaggle of girls who all looked entranced at the whispered tale of Parkinson’s “episode.” Pansy sighed, keeping her face impassive. There was no Slytherin in sight, thus any conversation over dinner was bound to be unintellectual, pointless and dull. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” came a wandering voice. The table was quite small for the number seated, though this did not stop everyone attempting to edge as far as possible away from Pansy. Power, Pansy reminded herself, fear. If you wanted to be friends with them, you would be. Fear is preferable. Think Machiavelli. 

Pansy shrugged, her shoulders a little too tense to pull off nonchalant. 

Luna took a place opposite her and pulled out a copy of The Quibbler. How embarrassing, Pansy thought, I hope Scamander doesn’t catch her reading such rubbish… While she flicked through the luminous purple magazine (was she reading it upside-down?!), Luna’s hand played with a golden charm on the end of her necklace.

“What is that? It’s…pretty.” Pansy added, curiosity grabbing her out of nowhere. The girl had radishes for earrings, so surely she wasn’t wealthy enough to actually decorate herself with money?

Luna extended the galleon attached to a long silver necklace that also held other mismatched charms. A glass butterfly, a paper hippogriff that occasionally flapped it’s wings and a selection of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans caught Pansy’s eyes amid a myriad of other strange tidbits. 

“It was a gift from a friend. It was enchanted so a group of us could keep in contact, though really only Neville and I use it now,” said Luna placing the galleon in Pansy’s hand. 

The yellow-gold felt warm under her touch, and on the edge was inscribed the words “Good luck. I miss you. NL.”

“How sweet,” Pansy said, in fact thinking how sickening. Now I’m jealous because Neville Longbottom is sending love notes to people. So this is what rock bottom feels like. “Are you going to tell him about Scamander’s little crush?”

“Hmm?” Luna replied, with a complete air of innocence.

“Oh, come on. Luna, he totally want’s to Love-you-good, if you know what I mean?”

Luna adopted the expression that usually only crosses the faces of those… talking to Luna. “No, I really don’t. Are you possessed by a Splicklewart too?”

Rolf chose that moment to enter the room. He rang a little bell next to the door, which cued the appearance of food on the table in true old-school form. After that, he made his way over to the end where Pansy and Luna were sitting, despite the number of spaces forced open as he passed down the table. 

“Hello, Luna. Miss Parkinson. It’s nice to see everyone finally getting along- could you possibly pass the broccoli?” 

Pansy had always found talking to Professors rather awkward- especially when they were a mere heartbeat older than herself- so decided to just to sit back and watch with interest the interaction between the pair before her. It was also practically impossible to make herself heard over the loud bragging of McClaggen, who proudly proclaimed how his family owned a fleet of racing Winged Horses. If he had been closer down the table, Pansy would have been tempted to brain him with her intro pack. As it was, the distant bragging in fact made her quite nostalgic for the old Slytherin group.

“So, Professor, what are you researching currently?” Luna enquired. In comparison to Scamander, who managed to drop mashed potato into his lap every time Luna looked at him, she was the picture of grace. Obviously knowledge that Scamander had a great big whopping crush on her had made no mark at all. Things with Neville must be going exceedingly well.

“This and that. I’ll be travelling round a bit, making sure that everyone’s projects are fine. Winged Horses aren’t really my thing- despite the next book being about them- so I’ll be looking at other beasts more locally. I’m especially interested in trying to spot-“  
A loud, ominous roar filled the cabin. It was primeval, guttural, and made the bones in Pansy’s limbs freeze. There was something about that sound that made the prospect of escape seem impossible.

“Oh God. Oh God,” cried Justin, expressing everyone’s fears. “The dragons are out. We’re all going to die!! I’m going to die!”

“Er, not quite, Mr Finch-Fletchely,” interrupted Scamander, just as Gertrude was inhaling in preparation for a bloodcurdling cry. 

“That was just a snore-“ another blistering snarl echoed from the carriage beyond them- “Dragons, and I would have hoped you all read up on this, undergo something called a ‘Titan Slumber.’ Most large animals have something quite similar, usually they occur after periods of long exertion, metamorphosis or during cold spells. The pair of dragons currently under our watch have been magically ‘locked’ into this slumber, ready to be awakened in a week’s time when we they finally arrive in Romania.”

The twelve Magizoology students did not look overly comforted by this, and conversation continued at much more reduced levels than before. Though Pansy did have a silent cackle when Justin -at the onset of another gargantuan dragon snore- leapt into the air with a surprised yelp. 

“Bloody reptiles,” muttered Justin, sounding haunted. “Always the bloody reptiles.”

“Miss Parkinson,” Scamander suddenly began in an undertone, realizing that other students existed beyond Luna. “This is a rather delicate matter, but Delilah Root came to me about the little…um, spat earlier today that occurred between you both. She was asking whether she could change rooms, but seeing as she and Miss Grundle will be arriving in Avignon in a few hours I didn’t think there was much point. However, she was very keen for me to ensure that you will not… well, in her words, ‘make an attempt on her life.’”

Pansy tried to give him her sweetest smile.

“I’ll do my best.” But no promises.

“Does this mean you’ve worked out who’s going where, Professor?” Pansy asked, her body feeling electrified once the realization hit.

“Of course, silly me!” exclaimed Scamander, pulling another wad of papers out of his satchel- which, physically speaking, must have been far too small to hold so much paper work without magical assistance. “I had written it down on a post-it that I left in my left sock. If you would pass these packs around- they’re all named.”

With wild eyes Pansy past down parchment after parchment bearing the names of McClaggen and Dahl and Cantankerous, until finally her own lay in her fingertips.

Pansy Parkinson, it read in a cuttingly clear hand, Romania.

Amid the laughter and newfound discussion topic, Pansy found it quite easy to skulk out unnoticed. Her feet thumped heavily against the floor and her limbs seemed unable to stay still. It was a wonder that she made it to the correct compartment. She shoved herself inside, and stumbled a simple locking charm on the door.

I will not cry, she told her angry reflection. I will not cry. 

Her ugly, bunched up face seemed to have other ideas, but she kept the tears from flowing through sheer force of will. Yet she couldn’t stop her body gulping in hot angry shudders. 

I hate them. I hate them. I hate them, her mind screamed. They can sit around with their cushy horse placements, while I… Oh for Merlin’s sake, what had she put herself in for? Maybe this was a grand conspiracy to try and rid the world of Slytherins by throwing them in all the dangerous, unwanted jobs. Maybe she deserved this- for running from the battle and not picking sides. This is what happens when you’re tactically neutral. This is what happens when you fall for a boy who makes bad decisions, when you’d rather be friendless than weak, when they class you as ambitious and evil from the age of eleven and no matter what you do you can never change their minds.

Evil, rotten Slytherins who strangle people on trains. Well done, Pansy, for fighting that stereotype.

A small sound echoed behind her that sounded a little like “alohamora.” 

Perfect, an audience.

Pansy sniffed and gave Luna a ferocious glare as she entered the compartment. “What?”

“I just came to see if you were okay,” said Luna calmly, ignoring the venom in Pansy’s tone as she sat down beside her. “I know it’s very upsetting to not get what you want. But I think the dragon placement will be really fascinating- Rolf was saying that he was actually expecting that placement to come up with the best pieces of research. Apparently the reserve in Romania makes some extraordinary findings, and it’s not an area that many go in to-“

“There’s a reason for that,” Pansy said. “It’s because dragons are big, killer monsters that breath fire and wreak havoc. And, forgive me for not being as cavalier as one of Potter’s little cronies, but I like my head. I want it to stay where it is. My life may be awful, but it doesn’t mean I’m dying for the alternative. My skin had enough problems without burns and bite marks being added to it. Surprisingly, I did not find Hagrid’s attempts to kill us during school hours inspiring and entertaining, and he is not the reason I am here. I am here because I have a freakish obsession for unicorns- and if you tell anyone you caught me upset I will kill you, Luna Lovegood, do you understand?”

Luna reached out and patted Pansy’s arm comfortingly. Pansy was so surprised she forgot to scream insults at Luna for daring to touch her.

“Scamander also said, once you left, that your resume was too good to have you be sent off to the Abraxan or Granian reserves. It would simply provide you with the same experience.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Pansy asked, her curiosity strangely outweighing her hatred. “I was never nice to you in school. I never spoke to you. Your friends hate me and my friends- and we despise you lot in return. My-“ Yes, Pansy, you’re what? Ex-boyfriend? Unrequited love? Cowardly leader? “Draco locked you in his house for months. Starved you. Tortured you, probably- he doesn’t like talking about it. Some of the reasons his father is incarcerated are due to the crimes he committed against you.”

Luna shrugged. “You were never not nice to me. Also, I don’t think Harry hates anyone anymore, and Draco wasn’t all that bad to me. Mostly he ignored the fact he had prisoners in the basement. Understandable, I suppose. And I know what it’s like to be… not the same as everyone else. It doesn’t bother me, but sometimes it doesn’t feel especially nice. Any way, I hope you feel better about the situation. If you want to talk, you can. If not… I have some homemade macaroons you can have?”

“…I’ll go for the macaroon, please,” said Pansy, wiping her eyes and taking a deep breath. “So which did you get? France or Greece?”  
“Greece,” replied Luna, producing violet-coloured macaroons seemingly out of nowhere. 

“I hate you quite a lot right now,” Pansy said, half-lying.

“That’s okay. You’re not my favourite person either.”


	4. Chapter 4

Charlie stamped his feet. It could be chilly in the Carpathian Mountains, and the autumn air was beginning to get a bite to it. They were in a rather desolate valley, close to the dragon quarantine caves. The train tracks that had magically appeared earlier that morning were empty, and the remaining group of dragon wranglers were getting impatient to see their new guests.  
“Ten Sickles says that I can get the Hebridean Black into the cave before Baldrick even gets the Ironbelly out of the train,” challenged Marcus, stretching his muscled arms.  
Charlie laughed. “Hardly fair. You know Ironbellies are so groggy when they wake up that it’ll take them at least an hour to remember they’re dragons. Also we are not getting them out at the same time. Wynne would cook my liver.”  
“Fine, my friend, fine. If you’re chicken…”  
“If you’re so confident, why don’t you take the Ironbelly?”   
“Don’t insult my ego. They’re like kittens when they wake up,” muttered Marcus, darkly. “No fun. Hebrideans at least try to kill you.”  
“You are a strange, strange man.”  
Finally, the train appeared in the distance, like a sapphire snake with a pale white mane streaming behind it. When it finally pulled up at the agreed place, the five men and three women gathered eagerly to see their new pets.   
“Okay, guys- split off into your teams, we want the Hebridean out first,” Charlie’s voice boomed light and confident. They were all masters at getting the dragons into the temporary caves located down the tracks, embedded in the mountainside. However it was the first time they had done it with Charlie in charge. A couple of them, included Baldrick and a wizened fellow named Kerov, looked somewhat bothered by having someone as young as Charlie boss them around. If Charlie noticed their furrowed brows, he didn’t show it. “Marcus and Toothpick, levitate the cow carcass- and Caesar, you poke your head in and make sure she’s looking undamaged.”   
The door of the train opened to reveal the thin figure of Rolf Scamander, and a tall, thunderous looking girl. Rolf, despite layers of coats, was shivering and looking around with a slight air of desperation for anyone to talk to. The girl, who looked like she was cloaked in darkness with black clothes, black hair and a blacker expression, looked too stubborn to allow her skin to even prickle at the cool air.   
“She looks intense,” said Charlie as her gaze passed over him and stopped with a look of open disgust at the bloody carcass floating in midair like a gory ballerina.  
“That’s one way of putting it…” muttered Marcus, wiggling his eyebrows from behind the floating dragon snack.  
Striding over, Charlie extended a warm grasp to the Professor. “It’s good to see you again, Rolf, and you must be…”  
The girl looked almost affronted as she gazed at Charlie, but she stuck out her hand and gripped his. She had unusually large hands for a woman, and that dark-eyed gaze was striking. Charlie felt a little guilty for a moment realizing how sandpapery his calloused palms must feel in hers.   
“Pansy, Pansy Parkinson.” She stated this in a bold way, her eyes very watchful.  
“Well, it’s good to meet you. I’m Charlie-“ he began.  
“Weasely?”  
He laughed good naturedly, rubbing his hair In a manner that was both self-conscious and relaxed. “The hair gives it away, huh? Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you- it’ll be quite refreshing to have some new blood around the place. Are you planning on staying, Rolf?”  
“No no, just as long as it takes to make sure the dragons are safe and in one piece. Pansy seems like a very…” Scamander’s eyes took on a slightly spooked look, “…able and assertive student, so I’m sure she’ll be just fine sorting herself out. I’ll be heading back to Greece shortly. The dragons seemed very peaceful on the way down- just a couple of snores, so I’m quite happy to leave them in your able hands.”  
“The Hebridean looks great!” shouted Caesar, his robust body hanging off the side of the train. “Shall I wake her up?”   
Charlie excused himself, and suggested that the pair of academics stood a safe distance behind the line of wranglers.   
“Right, ready the carcass. Open the door, and let’s get this dragon out of here!” yelled Charlie, as everyone rushed to their positions.   
Clambering up to the side of the heavily reinforced carriage, Charlie did a quick check to see the Hebridean was napping peacefully before opening the gate with a clang.  
The dragon looked deceptive in size with it’s black bat-like wings enclosed around it’s body. The spikes spanning it’s back lifted and dropped about a foot with each slumbering breath. The Hebridean’s face was a similar shape to a horse, except for being larger, scalier and being topped with small horns and decorated with black, serrated teeth.   
Very quietly, and with the upmost gentleness, Charlie crept forward and climbed over the beast’s large head. In the carriage already lay the iron head gear which he hefted over the dragon’s muzzle and clamped shut on both sides.   
“Claustrum,” he muttered, tapping the wicked-looking contraption. With a groan it slithered shut around the dragon’s teeth, locking them closed. The dragon let a small, sleepy growl but stayed still.  
Charlie then rested his palms on the closed eyelid. It was dry and warm under his touch. The dark, toothy beast before him looked utterly harmless in slumber and Charlie could feel the comforting rise of the dragon’s breath, in and out. Not for the first time did Charlie smile with glee at the fact he had the best job in the world. Carefully, he stroked the dragon’s eyelid with his rough palms until an inch wide slit appeared, revealing a wicked purple eye. Dragons had hides so thick that they were almost impervious to magic, so any spells had to be carefully aimed at the more tender areas like the gums or cornea.  
Slipping out the carriage again, he noted that Scamander and Pansy were standing a good distance away and were watching the proceedings with interest.  
Pansy’s expression was hard to read from here, but she looked a bit nervous so Charlie gave her a friendly wave to let her know it was all alright. Only Scamander heard her mutter “Bloody Gryffindor bravado.”  
Moving back to a safe distance, and making sure that everyone was in the correct position, Charlie aimed his wand. “Vigoro.”  
A red spark leap from it’s end and made a bee-line for the violet slit, whizzing like a firework. Like a bullseye it hit, instantly making the dragon reel back it’s head as if it had just taken a nose-full of pepper. The clunky metal head gear hit the ceiling with a bang, and the Hebridean opened it’s violent violet eyes wide and furious.   
With a puff, a stream of midnight smoke coursed from the dragon’s nose as it shook it’s head viciously in an attempt to rid itself of the metal bridle. It’s wings flapped weakly, still heavy from sleep, and the beast fell out of the carriage in an incredibly inelegant manner. The black claws made ugly grating sounds across the pavement as it rediscovered it’s feet, then paused taking in the scene before it.  
“Ventus,” muttered Charlie, and from his wand burst a gust of wind that cleared the obstructing smog flowing freely from the creature’s muzzle. “Marcus, bring the cow forward. This beaut looks pretty hungry.”  
The bloody body swung forward in the air, Marcus and Toothpick expertly levitating the cow at a distance just beyond the dragon’s reach. The violet eyes distracted from the smaller, less interesting pieces of meat, watched the cow floating above it’s head with ravenousness intent. It’s serpentine neck spat out toward the body, but the witch and wizard deftly swung it higher. The dragon, wings failing to lift it in the air, was forced to follow the tempting morsel down the tracks toward the line of caves set into the mountain wall.  
Bless it, thought Charlie. Dragons weren’t the brightest sparks once they’ve just woken up. It had even forgotten that the metal muzzle stopped it from even opening it’s mouth.   
Marcus nodded to the bony figure of Toothpick. The pair began scampering back towards the caves, towing the bovine treat and bracing themselves against the gusts caused by the beast’s flapping wings. The dragons still sleepy appendages made it unable to fly after the floating body, so it was forced to scuttle after it, jabbing it’s large head in it’s attempt to reach it. In formation, six of the wranglers encircled the Hebridean, hands gripped tight on their wands.

Pansy watched the sight, mesmerized. The wranglers moved like a perfectly oiled machine, each staying a specified distance around the Hebridean- just far enough to avoid the angrily, flicking tail but close enough to jump in encase Marcus or Toothpick got into trouble. Not that the pair looked bothered by the situation at all, in fact from their smiling faces it seemed that they were exchanging jibes as they teased the beast like a cat with a play toy.   
They all seemed utterly fearless.  
Occasionally, Scamander would jump in with an “interesting fact” about the Hebridean, but it was obvious Pansy wasn’t listening. Rolf had realized in the few days he had spent alone with the girl that she wasn’t the easiest company to keep. Partly this was due to her blatant anger at being assigned to what she casually referred to as the “Placement of Death.” Though it was also due to the half-veiled comments she occasionally dropped about inappropriate relationships between teachers and students. Even Rolf, who wasn’t the sharpest tool when it came to picking up social cues, felt the need to address these references and thoroughly assured her that he had no such romantic interest in her. Pansy had coolly consoled him that this was not what she meant, and that her tastes ran to wealthy, emotionally-detached gentlemen who looked like they had a touch of consumption, not ridiculous professors who were obsessed with beetles, tartan handkerchiefs and Luna Lovegood.   
This comment had made Rolf choke on his tea, and they hadn’t really exchanged many words since. 

 

As the dragon neared the caves, Charlie ran over to see how they were doing. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” he said, looking at the captivated expression on Pansy’s face.  
Rolf nodded. “Quite the specimen. A little on the small size for her age, she’ll probably only breath fire in a range of fifteen feet- but very well done on getting her sorted out so efficiently.”  
Charlie grinned. “Thanks, but she’s not in the caves yet…”  
Pansy blocked the chattering pair out. The dragon was, indeed, in it’s own way… beautiful. It’s neck had a swan-like grace, yet their was no questioning the power and strength in those jaws. It’s tail almost slithered along the ground, and it was beginning to become elegant in it’s limbs as the sleep wore off. Pansy had not expected it to be so captivating. The way it moved, it’s size and the impossible black of the scales and poison of it’s purple gaze seemed too fantastical to be real. Yet there it was in its dreadful glory. A thing of power and flight and fire. A beast all feared… all feared except these maniacs surrounding it.   
Pansy had seen dragons at the Triwizard Tournament- the Chinese Fireball, the Swedish Short-Snout, the Common Welsh Green and the Hungarian Horntail. But back then she had been less worried with how impressive and terrifying the dragons were, being more entertained with the hilarious looks of fear that crossed the champions faces as they entered the arena. Oh karma…   
There was something strangely attractive about having such control and fearlessness around a creature so further up the food chain. Especially when that control and boldness was coupled with an attractive blond face, chiseled physique and mocking grin.   
“Are you alright?” asked Charlie, concerned- completely interrupting the inappropriate thoughts Pansy was having about the blond fellow levitating the meat. “You look a bit flushed.”  
“Pansy was a little anxious about working around dragons,” said Rolf- a sentence that would have preceded his imminent demise had there not been so many witnesses. “I’m afraid she may have wound herself up a bit on the train journey.”  
Pansy raised an imperious brow. Afraid? She was petrified. But she would rather die a thousand fiery deaths than let any of these weird dragon zealots know that she even felt a little uneasy.  
“I feel fine, thank you. I’ve just never worked with dragons before. If anything, I’m nervous about choosing the correct topic for my dissertation,” Pansy retorted.  
Charlie managed to stop himself chuckling, though his eyes crinkled at the corners. Even he, in all his awe of dragons, had been a little nervous at his first encounter. “You sound a lot like my brother’s girlfriend! Did you know Hermione at school?”  
Pansy just about stopped herself from vomiting at the insult, and was saved from answering by Charlie’s bizarre need to reassure her. “I wouldn’t worry about the dissertation, we’re all Magizoologists here so feel free to bat round research ideas with any of us. And in terms of working with the dragons, it’ll be fine. Once you’ve built your confidence up with the drakelings, you’ll be bursting to interact with the large bulls.”  
Pansy regarded Charlie, her eyes narrowed. Other than having a complexion so poor and freckled that it already looked tanned, he was adorned in burns. There was a pearly one on his inner arm, a raised scar to the left of his eye, actual tooth marks on his collarbone… The boy’s skin looked a battleground. If it wasn’t for his insatiable good humour, perpetual grin and ridiculous hair, he would have seemed rather intimidating. Pansy was fully expecting that by the end of this escapade she would either look the same, or be dead. Luckily, though, without the luminous red hair.  
“I can’t wait,” she replied, her words dripping with sarcasm. Charlie seemed to miss this, and instead gave her a bright smile and an amiable punch on the arm. Oh Merlin, he’s just as mad as Luna, Pansy thought helplessly. If not worse.  
“That’s the spirit,” Charlie said. “Right, they’re just at the caves. I just need to check all the wards go up okay.”  
And with that the burly shape of a dragon-loving Weasley ran off with near childish enthusiasm. 

 

Marcus and Toothpick, with practiced aim, levitated the carcass into the nearest cave just as the dragon shot in after it. The two wranglers then cast a spell causing iron bars to rise out of the ground. Four others then joined them and the group cast and recast spells of strengthening, fire-proofing and whatever else was needed to keep a dragon imprisoned.   
“Well done, Char,” said Mona, patting his back. “Not back for your first time as the Bossman.”  
“Hey,” Marcus interrupted, with a faux-insulted voice. “We did most of the work!”  
“As ever, so under-appreciated…” agreed Toothpick giving Charlie an affable smirk, her bony elbow catching him in the ribcage.   
The six began their stroll back down the train tracks, all in high humour. Distantly, they could see Baldrick and Kerov beginning to unlock the second carriage door.  
“Hey!” called Charlie. “Wait till we get there! And poke your head in to make sure she’s okay-“  
An ominous clang echoed.   
Charlie froze. Scamander said one of the dragons had been snoring on the way over. Dragons don’t snore in Titan Slumber.   
The sound of ripping metal sang throughout the landscape, and an archaic roar reverberated from the train. Instantly, the six began running just as they saw the figures of Baldrick and Kerov fall, and a gargantuan metallic monster unleash itself into the air.


	5. Chapter 5

Pansy hadn’t been in that many life or death situations. Yes, Hogwarts and the war was always coupled with a constant fear of your own demise like an aching pain or a headache you can’t quite shake, but it never felt quite so imminent as seeing a vast metallic monstrosity stampede towards you. In the instant she saw the beast in it’s hunger and blood-fuelled rage, she turned and fled. There was no standing your ground when death looked at you like that. There was no standing your ground when death had teeth like knives, a body of steel and eyes that boiled red.

It’s roar, a mere echo of the grumbles they had heard on the train, filled the mountains. It was a sound that told you to give up, freeze, why bother. Yet she ran. The earth rumbled, and there may have been shouts, but she didn’t care. The only thing she had to do was outrun Rolf and then she might be okay.

The problem with that was that Rolf had the advantage of an outdoor life-style and ridiculously long limbs. The Professor pelted ahead of her, his panicked strides easily leaving her behind.

 _Shit, shit_ , _shit_ , thought Pansy, trying her best to make her clumsy limbs collect themselves and pound at the ground harder. But it was no use, Rolf continued to outrun her failing limbs.

There was no cover, just the flat valley ground and her stuck between an ever-encroaching lake and an ever-accelerating dragon.

 

There was nothing else to do but turn, stare death in the face and scheme.

 

She stopped, whipped round, caught a glimpse of the angry miscreation and shut her eyes. Raising her wand she shouted “ACCIO T-TRAIN.”

With a shriek and clang the front carriage of the train ripped itself free, shooting through the air. With clumsy speed it collided into the only thing between it and Pansy; the dragon.

However the dragon was at least thrice the size of the escaped compartment, and Pansy lacked the power to make it strike with speed enough to damage. Yet the beast stopped in it’s pursuit, turning to rip a chunk from it’s iron attacker. Red flames licked at the sapphire train as the Ironbelly furiously disemboweled the engine.

Pansy could do nothing but watch in terror. The dragon must have been twenty yards off. It’s muscles undulated gross and gargantuan beneath it’s dull grey scales. Two seconds more and she would have been roasted, or eaten, or merely trampled to death. Dimly, she realized this still could be a possibility if she didn’t move. Her trembling hands pushed against the grass. Oh, I’m on the floor. How elegant.

Just as she was about to look around for cover, movement caught her eye- and the dragon’s. Like a cloud of wasps, the wranglers descended from all angles. Their brooms whipped around the Ironbelly and they sent sparks of harmless yet irritating magic towards the dragon’s bulk. Annoyed, the dragon snapped at the passing figures but did not rise into the air to follow. It was far more insulted by the body of the train, and continued to worry and viciously attack the machine with renewed fury.

A gleam of auburn red shone in the cold sunlight as one of the flyers descended in an impossible arc towards her.

 _No, oh no_ , thought Pansy getting up to run. “You are not doing that to meeEEEEEEE!!!”

A rough arm grabbed her around the waist, deposited her on the back of the broom, and the pair whipped off into the air.

“Why are you struggling? Are you okay?” asked Weasley, his short flyaway curls all she could see from her position as she clung on for dear life.

“Firstly, I _am not a snitch_. Secondly, I have deep distrust of flying things unless I am in control. And thirdly, I _really, really, really do not want to go back towards that dragon! Do you understand me, Weasley?!_ ”

The maniac laughed. An actual, carefree chuckle like this was the most entertaining escapade ever. “Don’t worry. I’m going to drop you, and then Rolf somewhere very safe before I go back to sort this mess out.”

Pansy sighed with relief, and unclenched her rigid hold on him slightly. Her eyes scanned the impossible blue around them, the horizon crowned with mountains and the mushroom-shaped lake below them. There was no safe place. At least none she could see.

Perhaps he was taking her to a nice, protected house far away where she could Floo immediately out of here? She’d explain, bribe and blackmail her way across the border somehow. This adventure had quite cured her of any academic ambitions she once had, and she was fully prepared to return to her maudlin life and her scarce, somber friends. They could drink unwisely together while she unrequitedly pined after Draco and moaned about how unfair life was. It would be perfect.

The trouble was they were beginning to descend.

“That was an amazing move with the train, very quick thinking. Looks like you’ve got a natural intuition with dragons. Not many people realize they’re the opposite of flight animals; when scared or hurt or provoked, they’ll just turn round an attack. Completely overrides anything else. Though I am honestly so sorry about the whole situation. It’s not usually this exciting round here,” said Charlie turning his freckled face towards her, his voice fighting against the wind. “And I’m also sorry about what I’m about to do.”

Before Pansy had a chance to threaten him with the dire consequences of his actions (i.e. being hung, drawn and quartered), he dropped her with the upmost gentleness (ignoring the nails digging into his arm and the unforgiving glare and creative curses spewing from her mouth) into the lake.

Re-emerging from the icy waters like an enraged sea demon, Pansy continued to hurl insults to the wind. “You bastard! Country bumpkin! You poverty-stricken, carrot-topped, freckly…” She drew herself up with vehemence as best she could and hissed, “ _Weasley_.”

His figure, which looked too burly to move with such elegance upon a broom, glided away deaf to all her rage. He dove and plucked the tall figure of Scamander from the ground with hideous ease, returning to drop him in the water beside Pansy.

“Back in a bit!” Charlie yelled, mistaking Pansy’s vulgar hand gesture for a friendly wave and returning the favour.

The damp academic bobbed wetly beside Pansy. She glared.

“You’re not marking my dissertation are you?” she asked coldly, the icy waters splashing against her chin.

“Er, no?” replied Rolf, not quite sure where to look in order to avoid her piercing gaze.

“Good.” She raised her arm and hit him with a wall of freezing water. “YOU SAID I WOULD BE PERFECTLY SAFE.”

“Well, you are-“

“YOU SAID I WOULD BE IN THE BEST OF HANDS.”

“They are-“

“YOU SAID IT WAS ASLEEP- _AND_ _STOP TRYING TO SWIM AWAY FROM ME_.”

“Miss Parkinson, please,” Rolf said raising his hands in defense, causing him to bob under a large wave and splutter. “This is the best dragon sanctuary in Europe. Look! They’ve even got the Ironbelly almost sorted!”

The pair turned to regard the wizards swooping about the ugly creatures body.

“No, they haven’t,” she said, her eyes watching with distaste. “They’re currently hitting the dragon over the head with the cow carcass. The dragon, however, seems more interested in dismantling your ride home.”

“Ah, sorry. My glasses are fogged up. Also, well done with the train. Marvelous piece of magic and ingenuity.”

“Don’t flatter me.” The train had barely damaged the dragon, her spell craft too weak. It was also hardly a cunning plan, and would have made far more sense to apparate. “I want to change placements.”

“I am terribly sorry, Miss Parkinson, but the others are oversubscribed as it is. Perhaps at the six month mark I can do some swapping…”

“One month.”

“This is really not a bargaining matter-“

“I would seriously consider changing that view, unless you desperately want to be in constant correspondence with the lawyers of Parkinson, Putrid and Pendragon,” Pansy said in her most amiable tone of voice. It was an empty threat. The family law firm had far bigger worries than her placement, no matter how life threatening it was.

Poor Rolf did try and look stalwart, despite the lump of algae dripping from his forehead. “I don’t take well to threats-“

“Two months, and I won’t flood you with Howlers.”

“Three- and you shan’t contact me at all, unless it’s for academic purposes.”

“Deal.”

 

 

Charlie flew back to the pack of wizards encircling the _draconis ferrarius_. Kerov and Baldrick were not looking quite as apologetic as they should be, especially judging from the dark glances the other wranglers were shooting them.

“Bahaha,” rumbled Baldric, the broom standing up impressively under his weight. “And I thought today was going to be dull. Right, Kerov?”

Kerov spat, looking impassive. Then again, he always looked impassive. The old Russian man with his heavy features seemed to perpetuate an everlasting distaste of the world- though Charlie tended to quite like him. He knew more mythos than anyone Charlie had ever met, and (when he made a rare attempt at being sociable) was a source of dry humour, bizarre anecdotes and homemade vodka.

“Wynne is going to skin you alive,” intoned Mona, her Afrikaans accent coming out thicker in anger.

Baldrick shrugged. “Well, it wasn’t my fault that the cow wasn’t asleep. Scamander Junior over there must have got the Sleeping Draught wrong.”

Charlie could see Mona bristling. Merlin, he was going to have fun writing this report up later. And if anything, Wynne was going to skin _him_. Charlie shook his head. “That doesn’t matter right now, we’ve got to get this girl into the caves. Marcus- how’s it going down?”

Below them, Marcus, Toothpick and Caesar were levitating the cow carcass temptingly around the Ironbelly’s head. Sadly, the Ironbelly was having much more fun wreaking violent revenge on the train. Marcus gave him a shrug, and a reassuring smile that was a little too gleeful.

“Remember when Norberta decided to take a day trip to the coast and joined that nice muggle family who were having a picnic? I think we need to deal with it similarly.”

“A Mexican Standoff followed by a Kamikaze Slide?”

“Hell yeah.”

Charlie sighed, repressing a slight grin. Today hadn’t gone as planned- but the chance for another Kamikaze was too good to waste. Plus, the newbie definitely looked like someone who could hold her own around a dragon- perhaps babysitting duty wouldn’t be quite so dull after all…

“Everyone hear that?” shouted Charlie. “I’ll take point.”

“Spoilsport,” muttered Marcus. “You take all the fun…”

The wranglers descended in a crescent around the ever-decreasing carcass of the train, which now looked like a strange writhing chimera of dragon and engine. Everyone pointed their wands, chanted the spell, and the train exploded.

 

Debree flew everywhere. The dragon leapt back in surprise at the destruction of it’s loathed toy. It still had a rack of wheels in it’s mouth, which it refused to drop. Instead it regarded the offending wizards above. Except they weren’t there. Everyone, except a lone, flame-headed figure had drifted off. Pansy, who had just made her way to the edge of the lake, could practically see the arrogance seeping off the Gryffinjock as he bobbed in the air.

The dragon unfurled it’s wings, and leapt.

 

Pansy watched the figure fly. It almost reminded her of Draco and Quidditch- talented, but not quite to the degree of the Potter boy. Charlie shot through the sky, turning and diving, the Ironbelly hot on his tail. Yet the dragon was slow in the air- so large it seemed a complete impossibility for it to fly at all. Despite this, Charlie continued to be just out of the dragon’s reach. Teasing it ever on and ever faster.

All at once a putrid, scarlet flame licked at the air, crimson against the clear sky. Charlie spun in a way that made Pansy feel sick. Beside her, Rolf gasped. But Weasley kept on flying, continually weaving… and generally looking like he was having a perfectly content time having a carnivorous dinosaur chase him.

Charlie ducked in, gathering speed, heading straight for the foot of the mountain where the caves were. The Ironbelly flapped it’s gargantuan wings, building speed. If he breathed flame now, the poor, freckly Weasley boy would be done for. Instead the dragon gave a victorious roar, extending it’s reptilian neck and followed the speeding broom straight into the jaws of the cave.

Pansy saw death once more.

The broom, and the dragon with it, flew into the quarantine caves just as the wranglers appeared to bar the gates and curse it shut. There was no sign of Charlie, just one triumphant snarl.

She screamed. It was meant to be safe. He was in with the dragon. Why would they do this? Why would they lock him in there with the beast?

Sacrifice. Always sacrifice. Why would they leave him in there to die?

She felt long, twiggy hands grabbing her and a voice murmuring words she could not quite understand.

Why was there always death? Why couldn’t she escape it? Why did people feel the need to step up and perish?

She shook off the weak figure of the Professor, her clothes dripping wet and her body wracked with shivers. Cursed, she thought. I’m cursed.

 

Distantly, a gleaming red head stood up at the foot of the caves- bruised, laughing and unhurt. Pansy felt immensely stupid.

_Dearest Milly, Theo and Draco,_

_Your friendship and support over the past few years has been below average to middling, but I have mildly appreciated your presence in my short, embittered life. It is often said the best of us die young; so I thought I should forewarn you that I, as the diamond in the rough of our little group, will most likely be passing through the celestial gates of hell very swiftly._

_Yes, if you had not already guessed- I have the dragon placement._

_However the dragons are only a secondary unpleasantness compared to the people (this is saying quite a bit especially as in the first forty-five minutes of my stepping off the train, a dragon took wing and tried to eat me). It seems, my friends, that I have gone back in time and am currently living among Vikings. They’re manners are strange and unusual. Daily they try to one up each other with tales of infinite daring and stupidity. It is as if they have some how combined the idiocy of Hufflepuff with the bravado of Gryffindor to create some bizarre sub-race of “dragon people” who glory in suicidal chores and comparisons of dragon du-_

 

Pansy crossed out the last phrase. Just because she had to deal with such vulgarity didn’t mean they had to as well.

 

_The one upside of living amongst such manly, muscular men is… living among manly, muscular men. I think a fling may be in order to deal with the constant possibility of my fiery demise. I have already scouted out a possibility- he’s tall, callously attractive and only speaks German. However, seeing the nature of my current level of conversation partners, not speaking English is really a bonus._

_Theo- in terms of your father, I’ve had a thought. Speak to Atticus Brand. He’s a civil rights lawyer. He’ll absolutely hate you, your Father and everything you stand for (and will tell you this), but he may be able to negotiate him into a lower security section of Azkaban. He’s terribly “moral,” but has a labyrinthine mind that knows more legal loopholes that you can shake a stick at. Don’t let Draco steal him from you- tell Draco to use Cobweb & Crimson. Firstly, Brand will work for free due to your unique predicament, and secondly, Draco can afford the ludicrous sums of C&C. Keep me posted._

_Milly- the wedding dress clippings you left me with were ~~dire~~ lovely. Please choose the one where the top half looks like you’ve been mummified and the bottom half looks like it’s being attacked by orchids. I’m not even going to pretend it’s pretty- but I think you should give me something to giggle at in my penultimate days._

_Draco-_

 

Pansy paused. She had put the bit about “manly muscular men” in to sort of make him jealous- not that any of her flings had ever seemed to make any such dent in him. Well, that was a lie. Occasionally they did caused him to bend over cackling, though usually this occurred when Pansy had done away with them and it was alright for their shortcomings to be aired.

What should she say? Please feed my cat? I saw a boy on a broom being chased by a dragon, and it reminded me of you?

 

_Draco- not to worry you, or guilt you into buying me gifts (chocolates, tiaras and packages of money would be accepted though), but I’m here with a Weasley. A **Weasley**._

_Wish you were here instead of I,_

_Yours soon to be toasted,_

_P_

 

Pansy didn’t bother to mention the research. Her friends weren’t interested in it- just as Draco knew she would not listen his rambles on the fascinating clockwork minutia of charmed furniture, and Millicent was well aware that any monologue on the adorable snuffly-thing Theodore does with his nose will be met with a well-aimed hardback to the temple.

She also didn’t mention how she was bizarrely enjoying being here. The Carpathian mountains had a stark and lush beauty that appealed to her (though the constant hiking was less her thing). The huts they lived in looked like small castles, with miniature turrets and fortified windows. The main building that held their offices and library was even surrounded by a moat. Something about the design appealed to the megalomaniac princess in Pansy.

Yes, it was mildly annoying that she had to share a room (and a bunk bed- how traumatisingly juvenile) with “Toothpick.” And yes, she had to call people ridiculous names like “Toothpick” and “Caesar”… but the people themselves seemed rather pleasant. And they seemed to perceive her as rather heroic after the incident with the train. This being completely novel experience for her- usually she was the villain of the piece and perfectly happy to be so. Fortunately, she had threatened Scamander thoroughly over the unpleasant emotional incident when she had assumed one of the wranglers had died, so none of them would find out about that. Just because she was called Pansy didn’t mean she wanted anyone knowing it reflected any part of her nature.

And the best thing was that none of them knew who she was.

Even the Weasley had no idea. She had made sure to say her name loud and clearly, yet there was absolutely no recognition. Pansy was well aware that if it had been Ginny, Ron or one of the twins she’d be looking forward to months of deadly pranks, murder attempts and barren humour. Perhaps even the occasional “Pureblood/Slytherin scum/git/generic insult.” But nothing. The boy, apart from being a danger whore, was utterly ignorant to her background and allies were. When she had accidently retold an anecdote about Draco, his only comment was “That is the coolest name I have ever heard,” before continuing to guzzle his dinner.

On the second night, having encountered no more dragons, useless Professors or accusations of being a Deatheater, Pansy was feeling rather content with life. As she was falling asleep to the strange whistling snore of Toothpick, she even naively thought that this placement wasn’t going to be so bad after all…

 


	6. Chapter 6

The remaining Magizoologists of the Romania Dragon Sanctuary were all assembled in Wynne’s office. They were, unsurprisingly, in rather deep dragon dung.   
Pansy sat outside, cackling quietly to herself.   
Every now and then the chorus of “But it’s not Charlie’s fault!” was eclipsed by the domineering reprimands of Wynne Warbeck. She alternated between hissing in chilled, deadly tones and yelling in a manner that was more akin to a lion’s roar. Pansy actually got chills. This was a master at work. You could practically feel them all cringing through the wall.  
And they bloody well deserve it too, Pansy reminded herself as the sound of another cutting chastisement echoed down the corridor. She hadn’t taken well to the quick dip in the lake, oh… and being chased by a large, terrifying dragon. However… the praise for her quick thinking with the train was a new and pleasant occurrence. (Probably what Potter experiences on a near minutely basis, if Draco were to be believed). And the rewarding wink from the blond wizard with the reckless grin was especially enthralling, but it hardly made up for the fact she was a) in dragon-occupied Romania, b) far from her faithful Slytherins, and c) deprived access to her subscription to Witch Weekly.   
“Miss Parkinson and Professor Scamander, please enter,” uttered the steely tones of The Dragon Lady.   
Pansy straightened her hair, preparing herself for another onslaught of compliments and commendations. It must not go to my heads, she thought smugly, her unfortunate nose rising in the air. I must stay strong. I must not crumble under the inevitable weight of their praise and decide to stay here. Remember Pansy- Constant Vigilance!

Compliments were Pansy’s kryptonite.  
Every and any idiotic thing she had ever done could probably be reduced to somebody saying mildly nice things to her.   
“Pansy, light of my life-”  
“Bugger off, Draco.”  
“Queen of all Slytherin. Nemesis of the Gryffindorks. Emotional Demolisher of that House with the Unfortunate Yellow Attire.”  
“If you’re trying to get out of Prefect duty again, I will curse you so hard you’ll see stars.”  
“She of the silver-tongued insult and insatiable insatiableness, with hair darker than onyx, and-“  
At this point Blaise, who had been recovering from last nights revelries and was draped over the common room bin in elegant disarray, threw the empty bottle of Firewhisky at Draco’s head. Unfortunately Draco had rather good reflexes and dodged.   
“Aha, none can touch me and my preternatural Seeker skills!” announced Draco to the hungover sixth years, who groaned in response.  
Blaise moaned something that sounded like a mangle of “Shut up” and “Crucio.”  
“Very deft,” agreed Pansy, not feeling up to stroking Malfoy’s behemoth ego when she was trying so hard not to vomit on her shoes. “Nice to know your time as a ferret gave you some worthwhile skills.”  
Draco gave her a look of wordless hurt. Hah, served him right for missing Daphne’s Birthday and the tremendous hangover he should currently be sharing with them all.   
Draco slipped his thin frame beside Pansy on the sofa. Even recently broken up they had an easy intimacy. Her body was curved in the foetal position on the offensively green sofa, and he managed to slide his arm around her.   
“Oh, my dear little lightweight. I know you are only so cruel, because you’re in a lot of pain,” Draco said soothingly, stroking her black hair.   
Someone who was tangled around Theodore added, “And because it’s in her nature.”  
Pansy ignored the errant voice, which an unconvinced part of her suspected to be Millicent. Her body was tense and she was looking at the soft place on Draco’s neck under the sharp angle of his jaw. She remembered that touch, and the kisses, and the handholding. Their relationship had been brief in comparison to the span of their friendship, and yet it haunted her. Ghosts of their intimacy continuously reawakened whenever Draco needed something, or Pansy needed someone, or when either of them realized that the only people they could trust in their beloved den of vipers was each other. In those rare moments when Draco ceased to be that terrifying silence that had overcome him in their penultimate year, Pansy was quite willing to give him anything. Anything to stop that quiet pain that wore at him and ate at him like a cancer.  
Pansy sometimes looked at the other houses in askance. Ever since that Diggory boy’s death, there had been an air around Hogwarts. It had never been a safe place for them, what with evil DADA teachers, inept half-giants, werewolves, Dementors, Basilisks, runaway prisoners (by Merlin, and they send children to this place?!), but the tenuous possibility that the Dark Lord lurked somewhere beyond the school’s stone walls set everyone on edge. None so much as the Slytherins. The other houses somehow managed to distract themselves with homework and petty drama, not to mention the three musketeers continuing to Solve Yet Another Mystery and Defeat Evil in that overachieving manner of theirs. Slytherin was different. Slytherin was the house with the highest number of parents, siblings, and family friends on the inside. Every day they awaited news that some one they knew had been called in for questioning, or worse.   
They were all aware that even sitting in Potions or drinking out of hours, they were the potentially the knife at their parent’s throat. They were the bounty that got threatened when ever a Death Eater made a mistake.  
“Pansy,” Draco whispered, his voice low and his lips close to her ear. From the bin, Blaise fixed Pansy with a defiant stare and mouthed “NO.”  
She scrunched her eyes trying to ignore the headache, and inhaled that distinctive Draco scent. He had gone without that awful cologne his Father had sent him, which reeked of leather, oak and unmistakable wealth. He had abandoned it after her subtle comments that it’s odour was akin to an affluent Hagrid. The idiot had refused to speak to her for exactly twenty-six hours after that, but it had been worth it just to enjoy that clean smell of soap and skin.  
“I just need you to cover me for tonight. Just tonight. Please.”  
Draco was less suave that he thought he was. When wheedling to get what he wanted he was painfully obvious- probably the result of being a spoilt only child, no one to compete with. Pansy could easily maneuver these supplications to garner favours or trust. Yet his more recent pleas had not been the usual. There was an air of desperation in them that made Pansy quake in the knee and want to lay down her life to fulfill.   
“You will be the death of me,” she muttered into his neck, only half-bitter. “If this hangover doesn’t get me first.”  
Blaise’s mute cries of anger were now joined with vigorous, and obscene, hand gestures.  
“Is that a yes?” Draco angled his grey eyes to stare into her black. She knew the moment she agreed he would be gone, taking his warmth and attention with her.  
“Don’t do it,” Blaise groaned, vomiting into the bin once more. “He broke up with you just last month. I may have seen you topless last night, Pansy, but I still expect you to have at least an ounce of self respect.”  
Draco pulled out his wand, and for a dangerous second Pansy thought this new Malfoy with his ominous silences and even more ominous undertaking was about to curse Blaise. Instead he hexed a sound-proof barrier between them and the others, enclosing them in visible privacy.  
In a lower, more urgent voice, Draco continued. “Pans, you know I have to do this. The sooner I finish this… thing, the sooner my parents and you all are safe. I can only ask you to cover for me because you’re the best liar and the only one I can trust. Please let me keep you safe.”  
Was there any better compliment? To be the only one trusted with knowledge of his mission, as vague as he was about it. To be one of the ones he wanted to keep safe. Draco was a bad liar. There was a desperation that exposed a troubled sincerity in his voice. He may not love her anymore, but he trusted her enough to know she would have his back.   
Please let me keep you safe.  
She knew the penalty for Draco’s failure would be his family. The penalty for a second failure would be his friends.  
Please let me keep you safe.  
She knew she wasn’t a priority for him. Family was the upmost. Family protects family. In part, she was glad she wasn’t at the top of his list. It meant he would not be afraid to use her, and therefore at least have some help in this shadowy task. It meant she wasn’t the reason he was in danger, or looked so pained, or had the Dark Mark inscribed forever on his skin.  
Please let me keep you safe.  
Those words echoed the ones her brother had said to her last summer. Memories of that midsummer night still woke her from sleep, and imprinted a constant knot of guilt and dread in her stomach. She already was the reason somebody she loved was at the beck and call of the Dark Lord, she couldn’t have Draco on her conscience as well.   
By Merlin, that night. The town house had been so silent Pansy had wondered why on earth she had awoken at that hour. Then she heard the harsh panting and confused footsteps outside her door. Her brother had entered her room, a mess of blood and unwieldy relief, repeating over and over that he would make her safe. That she would be safe now. He had the Dark Lords protection. All he had to do was disappear for a little while, but when he returned the world would be a different, better place and Pansy would never have to fear again.  
Guilt wasn’t a feeling she was much accustomed to, yet she had grown to know it well. Every morning she was reminded of her brother’s face and her mother’s accusing stare, full in the knowledge that it was because of her he was putting himself in the hands of an unfathomable, malevolent master.  
It was because of those words, and that dull voice in her head telling her it was inevitable, that she had put up such little resistance to Draco’s sterile termination of their relationship. She already knew she was too pug-nosed, too embittered, with too little brains and too little breeding for one such as Draco Lucius Malfoy. Her pathetic tears and halfhearted accusations of adultery (“Why else do you sneak in to the girl’s bathrooms, Draco? The décor?”) had been met with sincere reassurances, mirthless laughter, but –most troublingly- relief. He had been relieved to end things with her, quoting that endless mantra- “It will help me keep people safe.”  
The strangeness of it, doubled with his haunted looks and long absences, cut her vitriol short. It was no fun to try and make him feel the agony she felt when he was already distraught over things far larger and more important than Pansy would ever be.  
“Pansy, will you? Please?” asked Draco once more.  
Cruelly, she stayed silent for a moment longer, knowing she had already given in.  
“Fine, fine. You must be quite desperate to sneak into this Slughorn party. Is Zabini your date?” 

 

Back in the corridor, Pansy took a quick intake of breath. Her spine shivered as if trying to shake off the unwanted memories. If only she had denied him. If only she had been more selfish and refused to cover him throughout all those Prefect patrols. Perhaps he would have failed to let the in those Death Eaters. Perhaps Dumbledore would have survived, and this whole mess would have gone down differently.  
“Miss Parkinson, are you quite alright?” Scamander muttered to her in an undertone, as he pushed the door to Wynne’s office open.  
“Quite,” she hissed back, watching the other faces in the room morph from submission to morbid interest in her distress.   
It was stupid to think in maybes. Especially in this case- if she hadn’t covered for him Voldemort would have killed him and his parents. This world may be an awful place filled with prejudice, celebrated Gryffindors and goddam dragons, but it was far improved by having Draco in it.  
Pansy was well aware in which event she aided to conspire most of the ill in her family’s life, the one thing that would have to be changed to make so many people’s lives better. Sometimes she wondered- if she had a time turner, would she have the guts to go back and stop it?  
Deep down she knew the answer was no. It was one thing to want her mother to be happier, to wish for one brother to be freed and have the other alive again… Yet it was quite a different beast to end her life before it even began.  
“You do look a bit pale, Pansy. You do realize you’re not in trouble?” came Charlie’s deep voice from her left. Despite just having been ripped apart by his boss, he seemed strangely concerned about her. Weirdo. “What you did was heroic, if mildly ill-thought out- but then again, I’m not exactly one to give out prizes for intelligent decisions in tight situations.”  
“No, Charles, you are not. Everyone apart from these three, out,” said Wynne coldly. Pansy’s first impression was that she was standing before an Amazonian ice queen. Like the rest of the Magizoologists, Wynne looked far from the typical library-bound academic and more like someone who caught and killed her food by hand. “And I’m afraid, Weasley, that’s not quite the case. Miss Parkinson, you used a train to stop a dragon. Though I would like to applaud you for what was undoubtedly quick thinking at the time, such treatment of an endangered animal is criminal.”  
Pansy was suddenly pulled out of her pensive depression, and began to wave goodbye any hopes she had of getting a Nimue Peace Prize or even a pat on the back.  
“The European Committee for the Control of Magical Animals has been breathing down my neck ever since a certain incident involving Norberta and a picnic basket. I can simply not let this incident go unpunished.”  
“I’m sorry,” said Pansy, dumbfounded. Either side of her Charlie and Scamander looked equally gob smacked. “Did I… hurt the giant bloodthirsty beast? Bruise it’s delicate ego somehow?”  
“Merlin, no,” replied Wynne, rolling up her sleeves in a brisk manner. “It’s a dragon. It’d take a lot more that a barely propelled engine to get through that hide. But I’m afraid, at least for show, I am going to have to suspend you from any active duty with the specimens.”  
“Oh,” grinned Pansy. “How utterly terrible.”  
“That’s unreasonable,” interrupted Charlie. “Her degree could be at risk. She didn’t do anything wrong! In fact, if she had failed to accio that train these two would be dead.”  
“A fact I am completely aware of. But it changes nothing.”  
“Yes, Weasley,” agreed Pansy, elbowing him sharply in his broad ribcage. “Please don’t go all white in shining armour on me. The punishment fits the crime, and I will complete it gladly.”  
“Really, Miss Warbeck, I must agree with Charlie- how will Miss Parkinson finish the research requirements of her course without any access to the dragons?” chimed in Professor Scamander. He seemed immune to Pansy’s crippling stare, seemingly sincere in his concerns over her academics.   
“A problem I understand, Professor. Yet as you told me, Pansy admitted that she may not be… present for the full year.” Wynne uttered the word ‘present’ as if she truly meant ‘capable enough.’ “In which case she can carry out a literature review during her time here, as well as helping with any chores.”  
“Wynne, that hardly seems fair!” exclaimed Charlie, who looked at Pansy with… concern?   
Wynne gave him a sickle-shaped smile.  
“Talking about ‘not fair,’ we have yet to discuss your punishment for this outrageous display of ineptitude. I am well aware it was most likely others in your team who caused the ruckus with the unloading, and much of the fault falls upon those who failed to properly anaesthetize the Ironbelly,” Wynne gave Scamander a look that could curdle blood. Rolf became increasing interested in his shoes, and his ear turned an embarrassed shade of maroon. “But it also revealed your lack of control and foresight, therefore I have no choice but to suspend your research with the drakelings.”  
Charlie’s face looked like it was about to crumble. A muscle in his jaw carved tight shadows into his face. Despite her barely contained glee, Pansy felt a slight twitch of guilt for the Weasley- though really, some time away from winged reptilians might be good for his health! With some effort, Charlie managed to control his emotions and gave Wynne a brisk nod of assertion.  
“I understand.”  
“I truly am sorry, Charlie. You were doing so well with them. Your extra time during this suspension of duties shall be to assist Miss Parkinson. I trust I can rely on you both not to do anything stupid… or at all similar to Marcus’ usual behaviour?”  
With that, they gave Rolf an awkward goodbye as he clambered into the fireplace and flooed away. As Wynne ushered them out of the room, Pansy couldn’t help notice that she looked slightly guilty to have caused Charlie such hurt. However the silver-haired amazon noticed Pansy’s enquiring look and transformd her face into it’s regular steel glare.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Hmmm?” replied Charlie, turning his aqua gaze toward her. Beneath his darken brow, his eyes were impossibly blue.   
Pansy bit her tongue. She wasn’t sorry. If she started to apologize now, she’d never stop, and yet…  
“I’m the one who should be sorry. But thanks anyway,” Charlie gave her a half smile and a half-hearted shrug. “I’ll come and get you tomorrow. Soon you’ll know the joys of badly written field papers and treasure the many hours of polishing metal muzzles.”  
“I can hardly wait.”


	7. Chapter 7

“ _Get out_.”

“Huh?” Charlie awoke from his daydream and peeled his eyes away from the bright sunshine outside the window. Sitting opposite him, Pansy looked almost possessed.

He looked down at his watch. They had been sitting in the library for fifteen minutes. In that time, she had somehow gone from being well coiffed, if slightly drowsy… to wild haired, mad-eyed and surrounded by an imposing number of Dragon Anthologies.

“I said out,” the dark haired girl hissed. “You keep fidgeting. And sighing. And looking as if you are on the verge of death. Go. Outside.”

It was true. Charlie did not do well indoors- especially if he lacked an occupation. There was little point re-reading anything in the Sanctuary’s finite and out of date collection of books, and he had already completed his paperwork and re-imagined the entire 1995 Chudley Cannons win against the Harpies. There was simply nothing to do but be on hand in case Pansy needed anything, as well as daydream about doing his actual job.

In the distance he could see the large frame of Caesar and the diminutive figure of Toothpick coming back from a morning hiking up mount Drocea to monitor how the Ironbelly and Hebridean were fairing in the quarantine caves. He would have given anything to go up and check on them. The Ironbelly could be suffering from acidic build up after the stressful journey, and the Hebridean may need attention as they occasionally got a little excited with their food and would choke on the bones. Right now Charlie would give anything to put his hand down a Hebridean’s gullet to pull out a stuck rib, and be out of the stupefyingly dull library.

“Out. Please. It’s hard enough trying to translate Ye Olde Dragon Lore into modern English without fearing you’re going to expire from sheer boredom,” the she-demon moaned. “Bloody hell, this book even refers to dragons as Fell Beasts and Nazgul-birds. How medieval.”

“No. It’s fine,” replied Charlie bravely. “I’m meant to be here in case you’ve got any questions, or…”

“Get lost in this labyrinthine library?” replied Pansy stiffly indicating the four bookshelves and wonky three-legged table that made up the ‘extensive’ archive. “Somehow run into a dragon between section A to F? Become overwhelmed by the Dewey Decimal system?”

“The Dewey what?”

“It doesn’t matter, oh He of the Unsubtle Sigh.”

Pansy rested her forehead on her hand, snatching her long fingers into her dark hair, almost as if she had the weight of the world on her mind. Charlie took a moment to study those hands; the square palms and almost skeletal fingers. Not hands much accustomed to work, he thought. Her face was half-occluded by her arm, as if she were trying to block out his existence.

“There is an alternative, if you need a break…” began Charlie, as Pansy instantly snapped the book shut and stood up.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

 

* * *

 

 

“… _This_ is what you call a break?” asked Pansy indignantly, dragging her shovel and Cleansweep Five behind her. “ _This_ is embarrassing.”

Charlie and Mona exchanged a look. Mona had bet eleven sickles and three rounds of feeding duty that the new recruit would turn out to be a snob. Having noticed her sneer and snub-nose, not to mention her strange aversion to dragons, no one had bet against her…

“Something wrong with mucking out dung, Damsel?” replied Mona, somewhat imperiously. “Too good for it? Think Muggle hikers coming across big piles of this stuff won’t get a little suspicious? Everybody poops. Even yourself.”

“What?” replied Pansy, shoveling waste into the hexed recycling bag. Once packaged into the charmed container, it would be shipped off for a hefty fee to wizarding farms all across Europe. Pansy made a mental note to include this resource in her investment portfolio. It sold like gold dust. “I wasn’t talking about the shit. I used to do Pony Club at my Uncle Blackthorn’s stables. Believe me when I say this is nothing. What’s embarrassing is riding around the mountains on this rackety Cleansweep.”

Charlie suppressed a laugh at Mona’s little ‘Humph.’

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks into the placement, Charlie and Pansy had sorted out a reasonable work schedule. She would study in the library for the morning, while he avoided fidgeting, tapping, scratching, coughing, humming, and breathing too loudly. He was, however, allowed to doodle dragons, help Pansy with the occasional Dracozoological question, and theatrically mime undergoing death-throes of boredom every forty-five minutes as long as his re-enactments remained entertaining.

In the afternoon, the pair would tag along to other people’s chores and enjoy banter with Marcus and Toothpick, lecherous discussions with Balderic, and attempt to make Kerov experience a facial expression whenever possible. They had yet to succeed in the latter.

Pansy was anxiously awaiting the moment Wynne would trust her enough to let her go without the red-headed shadow. The boy seemed more like a Labrador than a researcher, sulking when stuck inside and bounding about when given freedom of the outdoors. With that in mind, Pansy attempted to train him.

Any time Hogwarts or innocent questions about her background would come up, she would find a subtle way to cause him pain. It was cruel, but she had seen such conditioning work wonders on her Aunt Clytemnestra’s wombat, which used to have an unfortunate habit of soiling the floor and mutilating the neighbours. Charlie must have thought she was the world’s largest klutz as whenever they drifted dangerously near one of these topics she would step on his foot, spill hot tea on him or some how manage to stab him with a pen (if not a combination of all three). Pansy detested doing such things as she was of the opinion that clumsiness was not a valid personality trait. She would have much preferred people to think of her floating through life with cool and elegant distain, rather than tripping about as a blundering health hazard. Neither could she vouch for the effectiveness of her conditioning tool, though it did work quite well in changing the subject.

None of the others were Hogwarts graduates- Marcus went to Durmstrang, Toothpick was from the States, and Balderic was most likely raised by wolves. This made Charlie the only potential weak link in her Hogwarts-free haven. The obvious problem arose whenever the pair began to run out of conversation- an inevitability when they were forced to spend almost twenty-four/seven in each other’s company. Pansy could deftly steer the conversation away from rocky topics for awhile, but she knew one day he would ask any number of awful questions and she would be stuck adrift on the sea of social awkwardness and isolation. Conversely, all the effort she put into avoiding discussions of Hogwarts meant that she was actually chatting to the Weasley far more than she had ever intended to. _Careful- poverty may be infectious_ , echoed a familiar sneering voice in her head. The voice was not her own, and for once she was angry at it’s intrusion in her peaceful school-less world. Draco and his views can be stuffed.

The advantage of this continual scrabble for conversation topics meant that she ended up learning far more about Magizoology than the textbooks could tell her, and also far more about Charlie Weasley. For example, he was a Seeker in school, had atrocious hand-writing, and used to own a stuffed dragon called George. (Pansy, desperate to avoid other topics, was forced to admit that at one point she owned a stuffed unicorn named Sunstar. What she left out was the fact she still owned Sunstar, as well as a fleet of other stuffed unicorns whose names ranged from Nightmare to Buttercup).

“You’re sure there are no dragons in this area?” muttered Pansy.

“For the fifteenth time, Damsel,” replied Caesar, as he, Charlie, Marcus and Pansy polished metal bridles in the light of the falling sun. “The Romanian Longhorns have gone south to hunt.”

“And if they don’t find food, you promise they won’t come back?”

“Yes.”

“And they don’t typically hunt humans?”

“ _Yes_.”

Pansy paused for a second, twisting her increasingly aching wrist. “… How do you _know_ they won’t come back?”

Caesar took a deep breath, his colossal shoulders rising and falling. It looked like he was having immense trouble controlling himself.

“Charlie. If you don’t take her inside – _quickly_ \- one of us is going to lose it and go on a killing spree.”

“But who will finish off all the polishing?” asked Marcus innocently.

“I will. Just. Cease. The. Questions.”

Out of earshot the three escapees burst into laughter.

“That was impressive,” said Charlie. “Cruel, but impressive.”

“Fifty-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds. That is a new record,” congratulated Marcus, rewarding Pansy with his attention.

“Well, when you said Caesar was the most patient man alive… I knew it would be my life’s work to break him.”

Marcus gave her a wolfish grin. “And break him you did. I had no idea someone could ask the same question sixty-nine times in a row and make it sound sincere. But I shan’t have my title as The Most Annoying on the Mountain won so easily. I bet I can get him to break in under fifty.”

 _Is he flirting with me?_ thought Pansy, giving him a half-smile. _I think he’s flirting with me_. “Double or nothing?”

“Oh Merlin,” said Charlie. “No more bets. With Marcus they get completely out of hand-”

“Charlie is correct,” he murmured, eyes dancing. “This bet was entirely too tame. Who bets with money… when we should be betting with forfeits?”

“No,” Charlie said, trying to be forceful but being impeded by his impenetrable good-nature. “Pansy is new, and you’re already in enough trouble with Wynne-”

“I think that is the Prefect in you talking. Pansy here doesn’t have any of those silly Prefect notions in her head, do you?”

Pansy was about to reply proudly that she had actually been a Prefect, _thankyouverymuch_ … but there was something about the way the sunset hit the planes of Marcus’ face that made her squeak, “Nope. None at all.”

“[ _Großartig_](http://dict.tu-chemnitz.de/deutsch-englisch/gro%dfartig.html),” came the devilish reply. “I best get to my disciplinary meeting with my favourite Dragon Lady. You and I shall finalise our forfeits in time for the camping trip, I think? [Aufwiedersehen](http://dict.tu-chemnitz.de/deutsch-englisch/Aufwiedersehen.html), Charlie. Till next time, Damsel.”

Watching him stroll down that hill ( _goddamit_ \- he even strolled in an attractive manner), Pansy clenched her stomach. She was well aware she may have acted… on the simpering side. Mentally she prepared herself for an onslaught of teasing.

“So back to the library?” asked Charlie, his masses of red hair glinting in the setting sun.

Huh? No cruel jests? No despairing looks? _Nothing_?

“Don’t worry,” replied Pansy, grateful and confused. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Also I do not need a babysitter to read books. Really.”

Charlie scoffed. “If you’re making bets with Marcus, you may need someone looking out for you. Last time I lost a bet to him, I ended up running starkers through the drakeling pen with nothing but an expensive piece of venison to protect my…er, pride.”

“Sometimes I do wonder how on earth this place remains licensed,” said Pansy wonderingly, with a touch of relief in her voice. It looked like Charlie had no idea how obvious Pansy had been in her attention to Marcus. Unsurprising, really, since he seemed to have the social awareness of a particularly bright rock. Mona’s obvious and continuous fawning over him seemed to go completely over his excessively crimson head. Mona annoyed Pansy no end merely because there were elements in her attentiveness and simpering that hit an uncomfortable chord with the way Pansy sometimes used to act around Draco.

“They need somebody to do this job- and I think we already employ all the eccentrics willing to do it.”

“Good point, Weasley. Good point. On a separate note- referring to your privates as ‘your pride’ may come across to some people as being slightly overconfident.”

If this comment had been to a Slytherin, the natural response would have been something along the lines of “Not overconfident, Pans. Merely accurate.” (Which in fact, Blaise had –charmingly- said to her at one point). Instead Charlie, chronic Gryffindor that he was, choked on the air and turned the same colour as his hair.

For a second Pansy was afraid he wasn’t going to recover. _Dammit, how am I going to explain it if he chokes to death? Sorry, officer, I offended his frail Gryffindor sensibility and he died on his own euphemism._ How idiotic- Gryffindors mated for life and were as prudish and goody two shoes as… Gryffindors _._ Mentioning private parts was like shouting “Boo” at a Hufflepuff.

“Okay, there?” Pansy asked, gruffly patting his back- which was her equivalent of intense medical attention.

“Yep, just give me a second.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Pansy, why are there scorch marks on the table and...” upon seeing her seething looks, “and why are you angry at the sausages?”

“I was trying to cook them,” Pansy said shortly, lack of caffeine and food making her rather dangerous before noon.

“…and you tried a Vulcan Hex rather than a Domestic Charm?”

“Yes,” Pansy growled.

Charlie gently extracted the sausage links from her hands. “Come on, watch me.”

Pansy followed him, and stood sulking as he readied the saucepan and taught her the correct cooking spell. Soon the sausages were hissing temptingly. Charlie had deftly realized that this was going to be the start of her problems, and clearly pronounced the spells for the washing up and coffee without drawing attention to the instruction.

“Who taught you to cook?” Pansy inquired, the smell of the sausages reviving her.

“My mother. Not that this really counts as cooking. Though I can make a mean Sunday roast, and six-tiered wedding cake. (Don’t ask, my manhood may not survive the explanation). So, you a House Elf brat?” Charlie asked before he even realized the words had left his mouth. His eyes went so wide that Pansy was momentarily stunned at how blue they were. Sky blue, with dark flecks like waves in the ocean.

“By Merlin, Pans- I’m so sorry. It’s what my brothers call _\- I’m so sorry_.”

Charlie was so aghast at the possibility he may have insulted Pansy that she actually burst out laughing (a thing that rarely happened at this hour).

“Oh, Char, if you want to insult me you’ll have to try a _lot_ harder than that. And yes, I do have a house elf. Her name is Pokey, and in many way I am her brat…” Pansy looked wistful for a second as she poured them both coffee, and drank hers in one. “She practically raised me. In fact, my mother only really started taking an interest in me around the age of five because I had begun wearing a pillowcase and asking if I could do the laundry. So what other domestic skills can you teach me before I destroy the kitchen?”

“I can teach you some more cooking charms. Also, I’m a mean darner. My mother felt the bizarre need to teach us all how to knit- probably so we can infect the rest of the populace with Weasley jumpers,” he gestured to his navy jumper, smiling broadly.

“I’ll give that a miss,” said Pansy grinning into her cup.

“Wise choice. I’m well-versed in laundry and ironing spells- though I should warn you that I can never get the socks to match up quite right.”

Pansy fanned herself. “My, my- stop you’re overpowering me with the extent of your domestic godliness!”

“Laugh all you want- once you’ve done Dung Duty at the caves, you’ll be begging me for those charms.”

“Point taken,” replied Pansy, wincing.

“You really aren’t offended?”

“What?”

“The house elf thing. Caesar was the same when he first arrived. He once tried to dust the living room and ended up conjuring a small tornado. I don’t think that about you- that you’re a brat- it was really just a thoughtless comment-“

“Charlie, please. If my ego had been so terribly bruised, you would know. My revenge would be disproportionally grand, swift and unsubtle.” Pansy gave him an imperious yet reassuring look. Geez, amongst the Slytherins “House elf brat” would have been a compliment. “If anything, it was heartening to know you’re not sickeningly affable all the way through. Really- it was worrying me how someone could be so perfectly perfect all the time. It must be exhausting.”

“Hardly,” Charlie muttered, looking darkly at his coffee.

“You are nice to everyone. _All_ the time. You never have an off moment. Never snap, insult or berate. You even look apologetic when you accidently stray too close to sarcasm. I’ve seen you come back from a six hour stint, covered in dragon shit, smiling, joking with Marcus, complimenting Mona, offering to do more shifts for Wynne, and somehow managing not to punch Baldric. You’re insanely nice. It’s frightening.”

Charlie gave her an unimpressed and disbelieving look.

“What? You think you’re some kind of rude barbarian? Tough shit, Weasley. I, Pansy Parkinson soon to be M.A.G.E, am here to tell you you’re a lovely bloke who everyone likes. And it’s frightening. Is there some sort of drug that keeps you going? Are you snorting fairy dust?”

“ _Everyone_ doesn’t like me-“ Charlie replied, chuckling awkwardly. There was a strange forcefulness to Pansy’s compliments that almost made them sound like insults. Fortunately Charlie had spent enough time with her over the last fortnight to realize her intensity merely exposed her eagerness to get her point across. Everything about Pansy was to extremes. She laughed like she was hearing the funniest joke, and she sulked like the world was going to end. For someone as naturally conciliatory as Charlie, who looked for exhilaration in his work and not people, it was… a new experience to find that excitement in an individual.

“They do. Even Kerov likes you. And he hates everything. He even hates that he likes you. It’s immensely entertaining.”

“It’s not so weird. I mean- everyone likes you too-“

Pansy let out a cackle, almost upending her coffee.

“Weasley, I had no idea how naïve and entertaining you were. Mona barely tolerates me. Marcus doesn’t know what to make of me. Toothpick and I get along okay- but we would never _choose_ to hang out together in any other situation. Wynne despairs of my presence. Baldric just wants to- I’m not even going to finish that sentence lest I vomit- Baldric is _gross_. Caesar only gets about fifty percent of my humour. Georgie is nice to me, but would really rather I wasn’t around. Kerov and I have a beautiful mutual love-hate relationship fueled by Russian insults and vodka... Leaving the only person who likes me, being you, and that hardly even counts because you like everyone. And such lack of discerning taste is really rather insulting. I have fantastic taste, therefore like hardly anyone.”

Charlie served the sausages, and watched with mild amusement as Pansy ravaged them as fiercely as the drakelings at feeding time.

“I don’t like _every_ one,” Charlie said in an undertone, poking at his sausage half-heartedly.

“Charlie Weasley- if you’re about to tell me you don’t like me then…” Pansy took a moment to ponder her threat as she chewed the succulent morsel in her mouth. “By Merlin, I really don’t care as long as you keep cooking me these sausages. Really. You can hate me with a vile and murderous rage, and I will not care as long as you feed me these at regular intervals.”

“I don’t like Baldric. As you say- he’s gross, and vulgar. I don’t hate him. I don’t hate anyone- No, that’s a lie,” Charlie fell silent.

“Oh, a list of people Charlie hates! This should be fun and short-“ Pansy said brightly before faltering, she hadn’t noticed the ever present grin of Charlie’s face fall. The expression it now held was uncomfortable, fraught. His eyes looked grim, and old. That light way he carried himself was gone and with it the illusion he was an unthreatening man. Charlie wasn’t tall, just a mere inch above Pansy, but his bulk and contained muscle gave him a gravity others lacked. He was built for strength and speed and the outdoors, and it had left an edge. An edge that had been sharpened.

“We don’t have to talk about-“ Pansy began quietly, an ominous premonition coming over her. We don’t have to talk about the war. Please don’t talk about the war.

“Fenrir Greyback, he mauled Bill’s face. Lucius Malfoy, he embroiled my sister in some dark magic when she was about eleven.” He didn’t notice Pansy flinch. “Tom Riddle, and his cronies, who are reasons George lost an ear and… and Fred is no longer with us.”

Pansy shuddered at the name. That name. He used it so casually. Tom Riddle. It sounds more like the name of an adventurous school boy, not the leader of a band of murderers.

The silence drew on, leaving Pansy awkward, afraid, unsure of what to do. She reached a hand out and touched the top of his wrist, gently. She couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. She couldn’t bear the thoughts in her head. Part of her wanted to sympathize, to empathize, to apologize. So many stupid –izes. She wanted to say sorry for what had happened to him. But it was an empty, damp thing to say- and wasn’t she always angry that _Slytherins_ had to apologise for murders and sins they did not commit? She would never forgive herself for offering him such a weak, childish word- and neither would he.

The only thing would be to exchange scar for scar, wound for wound. I’ll take your bruise if you take mine. But even then it turns into a tragic tale of one-upmanship. I lost a brother, you lost a brother. One of yours is scarred for life? Try life-imprisonment. Feel like swapping?

And she was on the wrong side.

You can’t offer sympathy if those you’re tied to did the taking.

She didn’t want anyone to know her alliances, as innocent but damning as they were. She loved this anonymity. People could hate her for just being Pansy now! Not some Slytherin cow, befriender and sibling of Death Eaters.

But Charlie saved her from saying anything by doing something truly bizarre. She had only rested her fingertips on his wrist in a small token of acknowledgement and sympathy, yet he twisted his wrist under her touch allowing her to feel the harsh contrast between the soft skin under his palm and the rough callous of a burn. He then moved his hand down, her fingers tracing another sickle-shaped scar underscoring his thumb, and then captured her hand in his grip. Holding it.

It was warm, and for the moment his touch distracted her hazardous thoughts, comforting.

“Sometimes,” Charlie, began to admit with a hint of humour re-entering his voice. “Sometimes I even hate Harry Potter.”

 _Bet he’d love to know I wanted to send HP to Voldemort with a bow_ , Pansy thought sardonically, a poor-humoured snort leaving her mouth. To her surprise, Charlie too let out a strange bark of laughter that masked the ominous brightness in his eyes.

“Weasley, you are a strange one,” Pansy said, giving his hand a squeeze before extracting it. It was nice holding it, and it was probably rude to abandon it so quickly, but she wanted to reverse out of… _this_ , before it got awkward.

“Whatever. You think I’m perfectly perfect.”

“Quiet you. I said it in a haze of hunger and sausage madness. I also said you were on drugs.”

“You said everyone likes me. So you must like me too,” Charlie’s face had gained a wicked smile.

“I said it because I thought you were about to self-flagellate from insulting me. I am neutral to you. Your hair is too bright and I find it offensively blinding at this hour of the day- don’t you have a dimmer switch?”

“Hey, you also said you loved my sau-“

Pansy whipped out her wand. “Finish that sentence and you won’t have a sausage left.”

And with that she grabbed his untouched plate of food, and reversed from the kitchen at a demonic, newly caffeinated speed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fataizi and Laurajane for their lovely coments! More updates to come :)

_Pansy,_

_I gather you are well. In regards to your letter, your brother is as you would expect._

_I was at the Bulstrode’s Secret Garden Party the other day (wonderful décor- almost managed to distract from the migraine-inducing sight of multiple Bulstrode chins), and Millicent informed me of your curious choice of placement. I, of course, knew where you were- but was surprised that you chose to inform others about the whereabouts of your little holiday. “Off cavorting with dragons” does have a rather butch ring to it, don’t you agree? I hardly think anyone in that line of work is married (or at least I hope not- the idea of making more sweating, brutish workers is vile)._

_Fear not though, darling, I did the rounds and notified everyone that your time travelling round Europe was purely a cultural experience and to add to your adequate list of accomplishments. I made an especial note to inform Theodore Nott’s mother (such a charming, handsome boy –obvious he is both short-sighted and in possession of remarkable patience to be engaged to that bullish girl. Darling, please do make note, an engagement is not a marriage. And, even you, sparkle next to such a monstrosity as that unfortunate Bulstrode)._

_Did you know that it looks like Theodore’s father may avoid the Kiss after all? Apparently they’ve employed that swot Atticus, who argued it on ‘moral’ grounds. Therefore the Notts may once again be an acceptable family to dine with, despite the fact his father obvious killed those muggles_ (the word “mudblood” was heavily crossed out). _Quite the relief- I was getting so tired of having the Flints round, and the Notts do have a dash more breeding, don’t they? (Speaking of the Flints, that Marcus boy is still single. Probably because he had that squint… But being comfortably wealthy and well-bred do make up for so much)._

_In any case, Pansy dearest, please do your Mother a decency and avoid any facial scars or lost limbs. I already have an imprisoned son, I don’t think being cursed with a crippled daughter would be especially fair. I think you’ve hurt me enough already._

_Kisses,_

_Tabitha Parkinson (nee Tremain)_

 

 

Marcus (dragon-wrangling Marcus, not sexist pig Slytherin Marcus) regarded Pansy from across the breakfast table. The painfully well-sculpted planes of his face were pulled into a puppyish look of confusion.

“Char, I had no idea the British were such private people. Do you all burn your correspondence?”

Above her forgotten toast, Pansy’s slightly vacant look was turning to one of maniacal glee as the parchment caught alight splendidly. The fire danced in her black eyes as the letter turned into a plumage of flame. Whenever people met her Mother they were always struck at how petite, beautiful and un-Pansy she was. Tabitha Tremain, pureblood society beauty, was the centre of scandal and hilarity. She didn’t have many close friends- you only had to scratch the surface to find venom- but she had many close acquaintances. All who adored her… from a distance.

“Letter from home?” Toothpick asked, bright pink eyeliner flashing as she blinked.

“Good guess. It was just my Mother recommending that I avoid facial scarring and that I should try to steal my best friend’s fiancée.”

“Ouch. I thought I had it bad; my Father sends me regular encouragements to become an accountant. He doesn’t really understand wizarding jobs- can’t believe there’s any money in it.” Tabitha paused, her feline face caught mid-thought. “I suppose, in my case, there’s not…”

Marcus gave his magnanimous laugh at the end of the table. “Charlie still wins the Unfortunate Letters From Home Game.”

Pansy’s hackles rose slightly. A little part of her brain warned that this was a bad route to go down if she wanted to remain anonymous, but a larger considerably stupider part was telling her this was a game she could win. After reading Letter Number 584 In How To Cripple Your Daughter’s Self-Esteem, Pansy felt like she needed a win.

“Oh, really? Challenge accepted,” she said turning on an unsuspecting Charlie, who was shoveling egg innocently into his mouth. With his hair ruffled in fiery curls and navy jumper on back to front, he looked like an unmade bed.

“Please, no,” he groaned. “It’s not a title I’m proud of owning.”

“Great,” replied Pansy. “Because I’m going to take from you. By the look of this… pile of cinders that was once the letter, I gather she wrote it after her third gin and tonic of the day, but before the fifth glass of bourbon.”

Charlie routed around on the pile of letters on the table until he found a piece of parchment with a tasteless gingham border. “You see this? It is the fifth letter my Mother has sent me. _Five_ letters. Written in _six_ days.”

“On half a page of parchment my Mother tried to set me up with two different men. Her record is fitting eight suitors in one paragraph.”

“My mother does the same. Last time she wrote to enquire if I’d like to have tea with a young Medimage… called Paul. That was the most awkward reply I have ever had to write,” said Charlie, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Especially as up until the point I found out she was describing a man, Paul was sounding like he was rather a catch.”

“Gosh, I remember reading that letter!” exclaimed Toothpick. “Almost persuaded me to give men another try.”

“Hmmm…” Pansy scratched her chin. She had a lot of ammo in the emotional damage inflicted by her Mother cartridge- but most had inconvenient context. “Oh, you can’t beat this. For my fifteenth birthday my Mother threw a party. All my friends were there. There was an appropriately mountainous pile of presents, and a cake in the shape of a dark-haired woman. I, _foolishly,_ thought it was a surprise party for me. However when it came to the toast (which my Mother gave herself), dearest Mama announced that it was a spontaneous party to celebrate _her_. Apparently she always felt somewhat melancholy around that time of year, so felt she needed a pick me up.”

“FOUL!” yelled Marcus. “Free throw to Charlie. This is a competition of Worst _Letters_ from Home. Not Traumatic Experiences Caused By Mothers.”

“Though you would have definitely won,” added Charlie looking aghast. “Probably.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” admitted Pansy, bitterly. “Getting to eat a Red Velvet cake in the shape of her head was strangely satisfying. So, what is your final blow?”

“The Howler,” sighed Charlie. A beaten look froze his face as he re-lived the memory. “I don’t know if I can even repeat it.”

“Too bad, because I can,” chirped Toothpick with relish. “Charlie’s Mum sent _Wynne Warbeck_ a Howler accusing her of doing away with her beloved boy just because he’s a bit slow at replying to her letters. You can imagine the fall out from that.”

“Oh Merlin.”

“Believe me, however bad you think Wynne reacted, the reality was ten times worse.”

“A hundred times worse. Hilariously worse,” said Marcus with a reminiscing look in his eye.

Charlie said nothing and continued to look traumatized. He didn’t look much like Ron, who was tall, lanky and pale. The condensed muscle and broad, weather-beaten cheekbones were much more appealing than his unfortunate younger brother’s destitute looks. For a second Pansy froze and halted her thoughts on whatever devious trail they were about to go on. “Appealing” and “Weasley” were not words that fit naturally in a sentence together. Instead she returned to shamelessly staring at the golden-haired god that was Marcus… who was casually ridding his ear of any wax. Charming.

“So…” began Pansy, working out how she would word this. “How bad would Wynne react if I asked her if I could start working with the dragons?”

There was a sound of cracking mugs and tinkling cutlery as three pairs of eyes turned wondrously toward Pansy.

It had been a decision Pansy had been pondering the moment she had discovered how few Lit Reviews achieved the higher grades and became published. The fact that they were tediously dull to write was also a contributing factor (even Charlie’s re-enactments of someone dying of boredom were getting a little stale), as was the unexpected letter from Luna. Her note, bizarrely written on the back of a HELP FOR HIPPOGRIFFS poster and –Pansy was convinced- partly in code, rambled about how exciting her research into the hunt for Crumple-Horned Snorkacks was going. Pansy, having attempted a reply at least twice, had given up trying to make reading in the library and polishing gear sound adventurous. She wasn’t Hermione Granger for Merlin’s sake (and thank Salazar Slytherin and his lacy underwear for that). She was here _to do_ research after all, and all that time sitting around was giving her far too much opportunity to mull over past problems. Especially blond, sneering, handsome, traumatized past problems.

She had received a short but humorous letter from Draco that had neither informed her of anything relevant to him nor calmed her worries. At least fearing for her own life would be a preferable distraction to the agony of worrying about his.

Also, being referred to as “Damsel,” no matter how much everyone reassured her it was an ‘ironic’ nickname, was getting on her nerves.

“Are you being serious, Pans?” said Charlie, his blue eyes bright with the hope he’d be back with his precious homicidal reptiles. “You shouldn’t feel pressured to do this- and Wynne isn’t one who takes being questioned well. She may say no. Loudly.”

“With violent emphasis,” added Toothpick helpfully.

“ _Yes_ ,” she replied, annoyed. “I wouldn’t bring it up unless I was sure.” I am so very much NOT sure. Please, please someone stop me.

Weasley practically leapt across the table to Pansy, snatching her easily from her chair to spin her round. Pansy’s senses were assaulted with a blur of autumnal colours and the utter awareness of Charlie. He gathered her up so easily and his laugh was so bright and he was so _there_. He kissed both her cheeks laughing, and something about that and the way Toothpick and Marcus were shooting each other knowing looks, swung her back into reality.

“Weasley, this is awfully endearing, but I can’t breath. I like breathing.” Her reply was strangely tempered. Her tongue had been on the verge of saying “Drop me before I get poor people diseases,” yet the hug wasn’t all that unpleasant and such insults tended to make Weasley look like a kicked puppy. Pansy wasn’t sure why this bothered her. She didn’t even like puppies.

“Sorry, it’s like Christmas and my Birthday all came at once,” said Charlie, placing her feet back on the ground like a gentleman.

“And Valentine’s day,” muttered Toothpick innocently. Pansy shot her a dark look. She liked Toothpick despite the flagrant muggleness, snoring and her exasperating pixie-like prettiness, so decided to ignore the comment instead of reciprocating with violent, murderous revenge. To her dismay, Marcus laughed instead of growing dark and brooding with jealousy. Charlie didn’t bother responding, as he was already bounding out the hut to head over to Wynne’s office.

 

* * *

 

 

To their tremendous surprise, Wynne granted Pansy and Charlie permission with the merest nod and delicate raise of her eyebrow.

“Finally. It was about time you both began pulling your weight.”

Pansy was just about to retort that she _had been_ pulling her weight when Charlie dragged her out the room lest they became victims of a violent workplace crime.

 

* * *

 

 

“So… was that whole story true? About your Mother?” asked Charlie as they flew side by side across the mountainous terrain toward the Drakeling pens. He thought it be best they start with something simple. And toothless.

“Calling me a liar, Weasley?”

He turned to look at her. He felt practically slovenly in his Fire-proof leathers next to her elegant shape clad in jodhpurs and a turtleneck. Black against the blue sky, the windswept strands of her hair tried their best to escape her harsh ponytail and a sharp smile guarded her face. Like many uncomfortable with flying, she sat too straight; her muscles and tendons taunt. Yet she often held herself like that, her statuesque figure tense and tempestuous, as if challenging the very air around her to a fight. There was something unconquerable about her, Charlie thought not aware of the small smile tickling the edge of his lips.

“Never. It just sounded horrendous. And it reminded me that I don’t actually know much about you.”

“Worse things have happened to people,” she replied lightly, her dark gaze fixed ahead. “And that’s not really surprising, is it? We’re strangers.”

“Hardly! I’ve told you loads about me-“

“Hmmm, yes, have I mentioned you talk too much?”

Charlie usually laughed off her sour retorts, realizing it was just dry humour. Many people thought Pansy’s bitter conversation was her being bitchy (which sometimes it was, though Pansy felt she erred more on the side hilarity than meanness. Often she ill-judged this and accidently formed arch-nemeses where she was trying to form friends). However, this time, Charlie’s grin fell and he got that kicked puppy look that Pansy found maddening.

“Do you do that on purpose?” she spat against the wind, tempted to hex that look permanently on his face as revenge.

“What?”

“Look like I’ve stolen your favourite stuffed dragon.”

“Don’t bring Georgette into this!”

Pansy scoffed. “I’m a private person. In this day and age, it’s not unusual. And it’s not wrong. People aren’t accepting of things they don’t know, so why would I give them a chance to despise me?”

Charlie tucked he scarf into his jumper, shivering against the cooling wind. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to be private. Gods, it’s not like _I_ am. I hardly tell anyone about… It’s just- you don’t have to go to such lengths to hide yourself. It’s a really tolerant group here. And we live in a different time to what we did ten or fifteen years ago. Everyone is equal and welcome. People don’t care anymore if you’re female, Hufflepuff, Muggle-born…”

Pansy froze in the air. Charlie floated on, spewing his utopian bollocks, utterly unaware as he neared the ground that she was still twenty yards up in the air and pointing a wand at him.

The fireball aimed at his foot came as quite a shock, and it if wasn’t for the heavily Fire-Proofed Leather he might have lost half his toes.

Charlie was instantly shot back to that night at the Battle of Hogwarts. Instead of the Romanian mountains he saw darkness, flashes of red and green, and bodies. Fred’s body. Blood and breath shuddered through him, and he spun round ready to curse –no, ready to _kill_ \- a Death Eater. Instead he saw Pansy storming down on him, whirling her broom like a scimitar and cracking him on the skull with it.

“You pompous, chauvinistic, over-privileged male! ARE YOU AN IDIOT!? A BLIND, SOCIALLY UNAWARE GRYFFINJOCK? Oh, of course now the Dark Lord had been defeated, the world is sunshine and rainbows and equality,” Pansy gave him another whack on the head for good measure, and then aimed for softer areas like her brother had taught her. Unfortunately there weren’t many areas on Charlie that were soft, Pansy noted amid her anger as her arms began to ache.

Charlie raised his arms to protect himself, and wasn’t quite sure whether to run away or rethink his rule about hitting women. Not that he wanted to hurt Pansy, he just wanted this ferocious tirade to stop before he lost an eye and more of his dignity.

“Pansy, what are you-“

“And YOU. You poverty-stricken, ridiculous-haired, CHARIZARD! YOU accuse me of being MUGGLEBORN? And a HUFFLEPUFF?! And a WOMAN? ….Um,” the slight lapse in logic made Pansy pause. Pain flooded into her arms as her anger dimmed slightly. Geez, it’s times like these I should really remember that I’m a witch with a wand, she thought angrily.

Pansy dropped the broom with derision. Her breath came out in angry gasps. She knew she was about to do something stupid, she was about to cry in front of a bloody Weasley just because he made a senseless, offhand comment. Even worse, she knew she was going to say something even more stupid.

“We live in different times, do we? Not so long ago I was laughed off the Quidditch pitch because boys in my house decided that widening the try-outs to include girls was a ridiculous notion. And no more racism is there? The Death Eaters may be reduced, but they’re not gone. Most of them aren’t even in jail. And they’re not the only racist group out there. If you read the news, you’d be aware that some are claiming that the Dark Lord’s half-Muggle parentage explains his homicidal and psychotic tendencies. They even write scientific papers to back their claims up! Apparently the Muggle genes are overcome by the chaos particles of magic. Oh, and let’s not forget the casual racism that pervades common folk. Even my own Mother, who believe me when I say she has fucked a Muggle or two in her time, would disinherit me if I had the misfortune to marry one.

“Don’t even make me laugh with that ‘it doesn’t matter what house you’re in crap.’ Families have been divided just because their child was sent to the wrong house. Think of what happened to the Black family! Even your own family! I was standing in front of that trollop you call a brother just before Sorting and even he complained about the possibility of not getting into his precious Gryffindor. How can there not be bias and division when we’re divided into a set of arbitrary characteristics at age eleven? Why put ilk with ilk? Because we want to accentuate the characteristics until ambition becomes greed and bravery becomes recklessness? Why do we have to generalize our complexities?

“How can you stand there, and tell me none of these factors would influence the way you thought about me, when they’re the most important factors of all?”

“Because they wouldn’t.” Charlie replied simply, regarding the hot tears spilling freely from Pansy’s face with painful tenderness.

“Either you’re a liar or so secure in your pureblood and Gryffindor background that you don’t see the truth.”

“Pans, I’m well aware Parkinson isn’t a Pureblood name-“

“I’m not Muggleborn, if that’s what you think. My Mother’s Pureblood stock, through and through.” _Multum valet coniunctio sanguinis_ is the Tremain family motto. A bond of blood is powerful. “And the closest Muggle relation to Edgar Parkinson was two generations ago.” The Parkinson motto was _Simul astu et dentibus utor_. I use my cunning and my teeth simultaneously. A threat to distract from their painful stench of new money and new blood.

“And I’m saying no one cares!” Charlie said, inching toward Pansy as one would approach a dangerous and injured beast. She stumbled back, almost hissing like a cat.

“No one cares _here_. That is completely different to saying no one cares.”

“Okay. You’re right. There are some topics that… people find difficult. There are still old prejudices that people are aware of, and, it’s hard to get past them. And it’s hard for me to understand- but I want to understand, Pans. I do.” Charlie continued to approach her slowly. “I suppose I can’t speak for everyone. But… Nothing you could tell me could make me change what I thought about you. I mean- hitting me over the head with the broom has made me rethink ever calling you ‘Damsel’ or questioning you upper body strength again. But that’s it. Honest.”

And out of nowhere, Charlie embraced her. It was an awkward hug, but Pansy was so exhausted and embarrassed and incensed that she just leaned into the shallow dip of his shoulder, and wished she could melt away.

“I am sorry, Pansy,” his hot breath escaped down the back of her collar.

He wasn’t entirely sure if his apology was big or specific enough, and he still could not get his mind around quite why this topic affected her so. He felt her volatile form in his arms, and for a moment experienced a flicker of wonder very similar to the sensation he got when around the dragons.

Sometimes there is a moment when you come into close quarters with a beast, when you have to move quietly and calmly to sneak past their defenses. Often this occurs with the dragons that the wranglers raised from eggs who’ve managed to get themselves caught in the wild, or who fall ill and are in need of attention. These beasts, despite your careful approach, oft turn their muzzles toward you and ponder whether to suck the marrow from your bones or crisp the pigment from your skin. Three dragons Charlie had raised from eggs had been caught thus when they had stopped being the tolerant little snappers and had grown into large, merciless hunters caught by fate in unfortunate circumstance. Each had turned to him like this, and every single one had bowed their murderous jaws away from him, and chose to let him past unharmed.

“I’m sorry for hitting you with the broom,” Pansy mumbled, her head faced away from him. Involuntarily, he inhaled the spiced orange scent from her hair.

Pansy felt a laugh rumble through him. “No worries. And I mean it, the whole it doesn’t matter ( _to me_ ) what house, what background… or what sex you are –well, quite honestly, it would be a bit of a surprise if you revealed that you were a man. But I would do my best to not let it affect the way I thought about you.”

Pansy snorted, and disentangled herself from him. “Sorry, I did go on a bit of a tirade… To be honest, you’re not the only one who mistakenly thinks everything is picture perfect now The Big Bad guy is dust. Anyway, lead onto the pens! I feel a dangerous encounter with teacup dragons is quite what we need to get over this awkwardness!”

The pair began hiking up the hill, cautious of each other’s company and making careful jokes and conversation.

“And as if you could ever be a Hufflepuff,” Charlie began jovially, as Pansy’s eyes went wide with worry. “Not that that would be a problem- But I think it unlikely a Hufflepuff would call some one a poverty-stricken, ridiculous-haired, Chari-something.”

“You do have ridiculous hair.”

“You just lectured me on equality! And fairness!”

“I lectured you on your vastly mistaken view that we live in an unbiased time. I said nothing of the Rights for Orange Haired weirdoes,” Pansy gave him that half-smile that meant she was (half) joking. Spinelessly, she ignored her ‘poverty-stricken’ comment. The faster it was forgotten the better.

“Cruel, cruel woman. Anyway, as I was saying, you’re definitely a Ravenclaw. No doubt about it. Nerdiness just comes off you in waves-“

“Slytherin, Charlie.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course. How could I say no one cares about houses and blood purity when twenty five percent of us are bloody vipers? Common knowledge that there wasn’t a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.” His pleasant face crumpled with distaste. “My Dad always joked that upon sorting they should be rounded up and sent to some kind of correcting facility. In fact, in hindsight, maybe that wasn’t a joke…”

“No,” said Pansy, catching his wrist and looking him dead in the eye. The wind tore at her face as if it wanting to sweep her words far away. “I’m in Slytherin.”

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Slytherin,” Pansy repeated, as Charlie failed to respond. _And proud of it?_ She thought of adding, _we’re here –we’re potentially evil- get used to it?_

Silence ensued.

Charlie nodded. The straight lines of his face formed indecipherable hieroglyphs that Pansy could not fathom. His face was usually so open, every expression free for all to read and enjoy. Upon the mountain top, with the wind stealing colour from his face and coursing around them like an avenging power, his stony features made him look like a strict Seraphim ready to pass judgement and justice.

“So are my family, my friends,” Pansy’s voice could not help but say, digging her abyss further. “They’re not- not all of them are… Some of them are just misunderstood.” She finished lamely, wiping the tedious tears from her face.

“Okay,” replied Charlie colourlessly. He turned and continued up the mountain path. She had no choice but to follow in silence.

A high wrought iron gate came into view. It’s cruel iron bars created a courtyard before a high cave that was protected on all sides by craggy cliffs of stone. The gate was at least twenty feet high, and was topped in vicious spikes. Below the barbs was a tangle of spidery writing that spelled out a warning, “Steal a Sleeping Drakeling, Wake Death.”

A chill that was neither the wind nor the coldness emanating from Charlie struck her spine. They stopped a few meters from the gate where a line of stones marked an invisible boundary. Charlie’s face, a pale ghost of skin between his flame of red hair and olive green jumper, failed to turn to her as he spoke.

“This is the Romanian Longhorn Drakeling pen. We look after a variety of dragons here, but the main aim of the sanctuary is to try and raise the number of Longhorns in the wild. It’s why we’re the most famous sanctuary in Europe- we’re the ones who’ve had the most success with returning young dragons to the wild and protecting their numbers,” Charlie’s voice continued to reel off a clinical list of facts, his voice uncommonly unsoftened by laughter or jests. “Longhorns have always been prized for their parts as potion ingredients- and their increasing rarity is driving up prices. Hence the gate, the Druid Stones and the countless other protective charms that you can’t even see. We keep the drakelings aged between six and eighteen months here-“

“-Because why hunt down a dangerous grown dragon when you can go for the smaller version?” completed Pansy, her eyes watchful and wary. She didn’t know how to deal with this not joking, distant Charlie. She wanted to learn the rules to this new relationship quickly so she wouldn’t… bother him.

She knew about Longhorns- they were basically the pandas of the wizarding world. If Pansy hadn’t shattered things, Charlie and she would probably be joking about their suicidal tendencies and terminally low sex life… Well, she would be joking, he would be blushing and probably defending the honour of the ridiculous reptile.

They parked the brooms against a boulder and emptied their bags of the additional protective gear; Flame Resistant Gloves, a burn kit, the world’s most unattractive goggles, and a black dragon tooth adorned with silver runes. The tooth was attached to a chain that Pansy placed around her neck. The secondary canine was part of a matching set, all from the same dragon skeleton, that allowed the wearer into the restricted areas of the Sanctuary. Across the Sanctuary lands were dozens of charms to bewitch and beware Muggles to stay away. All were rather innocent hexes, mental prods to turn around or cues to initiate the world’s most unappealing storm to hike in. The dragon magic was much darker stuff, and Pansy did not really want to find out what would happen if she crossed certain marked boundaries without The Black Tooth. All she knew was that beneath the ring of stones more dragon bones lay, as if in wait, biding their time until a trespasser made an unfortunate mistake.

“You’ll want to put that under your shirt,” Charlie advised, nodding to the tooth. “Little blighters will grab onto anything loose.”

“Thanks,” she replied politely.

They crossed the boundary together and as they approached the gate, individual bars slithered from their holding spot and reached for Pansy. First one would slip behind her, coaxing her in before another distended to do the same. Briefly, she was in a cage of iron bars built for her shape. She looked for Charlie behind the jungle of ebony; he too was held in the ephemeral prison. His gaze was fixed ahead, impatient. A fist clenched in Pansy’s stomach- she had been expecting him to watch her, to check she was all right and to give her some easy reassurance with his gaze. Instead he leant forward, eager to be out of the tangle of iron. Pansy shifted, doing the same, feeling cold.

The last few bars raised with a groan before her, curling back like insect legs to replace themselves at her back in their original rigid position.

That was when Pansy heard the growls. They were higher than the Iron belly’s, more of a buzz. A pitch-black cave stood across a courtyard of grass and stone. From it, glowing eyes flickered.

A small snickering noise stemmed from the shadow, and a bony, ravenous head revealed itself. The Longhorn was about the size of a large canine with a grinning wolfish muzzle. However, unlike hounds, it lacked the softness that distracted one from it’s predacious ancestors. This beast was an inimitable killer. Sickle-shaped teeth interlocked along it’s long grin, and it’s emerald head was adorned with a pair cruel looking, twisted horns. In the sunlight, they glittered gold.

A scattering of claws announced it’s charge, followed by three smaller counterparts. Each beast leaped toward Charlie, their translucent wings flapping to give them height.

At least he had prepared her for this welcome, Pansy thought sardonically. Yet her fingers still twitched to use her wand. The four terrors dragged Charlie to the floor giving strange barking screeches and purrs. The ginger maniac laughed, giving the largest a scratch behind the ear before wrestling it in return.

“Yeah, I missed you too, Aramis. Athos, what have I told you about chewing on kneecaps?” Charlie crooned at the beasts, as the slightly mottled drakeling with the enthusiastically wagging tail made amorous advances toward his mid-leg.

Pansy tried not to be too put out that he spoke to the dragons more warmly than he did towards her. It would have happened anyway, she reassured herself before a prodding thought reminded her that she should not mind.

The littlest Longhorn, who was about the size of Pansy’s cat, approached her and gazed up with yellow, accusing eyes.

“You going to give me trouble, punk?” she asked the dragon.

Fearlessly, it sneezed at her.

Charlie and his “friends” continued to play, utterly ignoring Pansy and the midget dragon. He was supposed to be showing her how to handle the animals… but Pansy loathed to tear him away from this reunion, just as she loathed to speak to him before he spoke to her. Instead she gave the little Longhorn an appraising look, recalled what it had instructed her in “Dragons: Do’s and Don’t’s”, then reached down to pluck it up by the tail… before stopping. The Longhorn’s eyes narrowed in a very familiar, warning way. Even while reading the section on Drakeling Handling, Pansy had been quite surprised that more people hadn’t lost multiple eyes and limbs by treating dragons in this manner. Dragons had incredibly flexible backs, monstrous teeth and hardly polite personalities, and despite this people thought it was best to pick them up by the tail?

She shifted her shoulders, and reminded herself on what Slytherins were renowned for: Self Preservation. (Also, Amazing Hair- but that was hardly going to help her now).

Instead of following the handbook, she shifted around in her pack for a sizeable chunk of raw lamb and set herself down on the cleanest looking rock to begin cooking it with her wand. The drakeling toddled after her, nose snuffling at the meat.

Interesting fact: Dragons only breath fire because raw meat gives them acute indigestion. In the wild, it tended to be the parent’s duty to roast the food for their young (who are flameless until about twenty-four months old)- but Longhorns were about as maternal as Pansy’s own mother and oft served their babes misguided meals of burnt hedgerows and battered telephone boxes.

The drakeling waited patiently for the meat to be properly burnt (Pansy was thankful for the Fire-Proof Gloves as her Cooking charms still weren’t quite up to scratch- unlike her Fireballs, which were top notch), before setting on it with relish as soon as Pansy threw it down. While distracted, Pansy flipped out her measuring tape and notebook to begin measuring it’s wingspan and length, doing her best to avoid touching the ravenous teacup-sized monster.

Charlie currently had his knee trapping the largest drakeling’s head to the ground as he checked it’s teeth, tail and scales.

“So… that story you told about the guy called Draco. The one where he got turned into a ferret. That was Draco _Malfoy_?”

“Yes. He’s my best friend.” Can’t lose anything by being honest now, Pansy thought, then recalled that she was alone on a mountain top with some on with a potential motive and deadly, fire-breathing weapons.

“Ah,” Charlie frowned, throwing Porthos to the ground slightly too hard as he began to clip the dragon’s claws. “I thought this Daphne was your best friend. Or was it Millicent?”

“I have a lot of love to give. I’ve always preferred to think of Slytherin as the house of free love and fickleness. Oh, and ridiculously good-looking people. Though I am biased… and ridiculously good-looking.”

Pansy thought she could see the beginning of a smile at Charlie’s mouth, but wasn’t quite sure if it was just hopeful thinking.

A dark cloud covered them briefly. Above them a flock of three Thestrals floated like silent death across the sky, their membranous wings casting a grey light. Charlie caught Pansy’s black gaze. A reminder. Separately, they both wondered whether there was anyone left in their generation who could not see those remembrances of death.

A shrill growl echoed by Pansy’s elbow and the littlest Longhorn, D’Artagnan, poked at her with it’s stubby horns. Obediently, she moved her arm and the drakeling jumped up on her lap, padding around in a small circle to get comfortable before settling it’s head on her bony knee. D’Artagnan felt like liquid warmth and released loud purrs like a particularly content cat.

“Told you,” Charlie said. Pansy jumped- she had drifted off, distracted by the emerald gleam that rose and fell with each of D’Artagnan’s smoky draconic snores, missing his silent approach. She looked up at his face- it still wasn’t right, as if his face was wearing an expression a size too tight. This masked Charlie unnerved her, and she felt nothing but guilt for making him this way. Lies weren’t difficult, they were part of life. She should have remembered that.

“Told you that you were good with dragons. We best be getting back.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

“I don’t know what you’ve done to Charlie, but you better stay away from him,” commanded a voice behind Pansy. She was making more glorious coffee to fuel her through the next few hours of essay writing (or, more accurately, Professional – _Probably Factually Correct_ \- Bull Shitting), and this unpleasant tone was really distracting her whirling brain from the tedium of dragon husbandry.

“And what have I done to him?” inquired Pansy tiredly. Luckily being physically and mentally exhausted helped her acting skills, though they did not dull the guilty clench in her stomach.

Mona was leaning against the edge of the door. She was long, lean and menacing, despite her perfect golden curls and chipmunk face. It was the kind of look that Pansy wished she could pull off- sadly heavy features and a pug nose did not translate to “Sweet Girl Next Door” in quite the same fashion. Pansy couldn’t quite work out why Charlie hadn’t hit that already, when Mona was quite so pretty and obviously so very keen to be hit… Pansy blinked. The coffee was messing with her language skills. That or the tangible aggression coming from the killer blond was aggravating Pansy’s less polite side.

“…I don’t know,” Mona stated sharply. “Charlie’s too nice to tell anyone. But it’s clear you’ve done _something_. The pair of you hardly do any chores or wrangling together-“

“My choice,” interrupted Pansy. The faster she escaped this conversation the better. “I thought having a variety of experience here was best, seeing as I’m not planning on staying here long. Plus I presumed Charlie would want to get back to his Top Secret Research, of which Wynne has forbade me from taking part in.”

Mona _hmmphed_. “Yeah, I’m _sure_ it was your choice. Plus, you two don’t act normally around each other. Either you avoid each other’s eye contact, or take it in turns to glare.”

“Charlie’s gingerness offends me. Sometimes I try to stare it into submission.”

“Hilarious,” she replied, voice dripping in sarcasm. It didn’t suit her. Mona was used to being smiley and getting on with people. There was a slight wideness to her eyes that hinted that she found interrogating Pansy distressing. “And he glares at you because…?”

“It’s not for me to say. Though others may put it down to my insatiable good looks. Others. Not me. Any who, I’ve got the joys of recessive genes in Swedish Short Snouts to get back to…” Pansy gabbled desperately, as she and her dearest caffeinated savior tried to make it to the door.

Mona stood tall and blocked her path. The unexpected movement almost made Pansy drop her coffee. She let out a very girlish, un-Slytherin shriek as the precious fluid almost spilled- a shriek which Pansy quickly covered with a challenging bellow.

“HOW DARE YOU!” she yelled, as Marcus popped his head helpfully round the corner.

“What’s up?” piped Marcus, his bat-like ears questing for gossip. “Please tell me there is a showdown happening. I love me some showdowns.”

“She _spilled_ my coffee-“

“I’m trying to find out what this-this- _Dragon Disliker_ did to Charlie-“

“MY COFFEE. (Also you had the whole of the English language to work with and you went with “Dragon Disliker?” Amateur.)”

“He’s been acting weird recently- _and round here that IS an insult_!”

Marcus raised his hands placatingly. The ‘Dragon Disliker’ couldn’t help but notice that his jaw line was so strong and square, it was almost painfully perfect. “Girls, girls. I think the only way to sort this out involves a sensible sit down. Followed by mud-wrestling.”

“Ugh,” Mona punched Marcus in the stomach with such force that would have crippled a lesser man. “Aren’t you worried about Charlie and what this girl is doing to him? He’s quiet and moping and… not Charlie!”

“If Mona isn’t up for the mud-wrestling, I supposed that only leaves me and you, Marcus…” Pansy flirted, before catching an unfortunate glance of her reflection in the window. “Okay, pretend I said that when I wasn’t looking like an essay-ridden wreak.”

Marcus smiled his easy smile. There were tinges of Charlie in the way he grinned that made Pansy wonder who was mimicking who. “Just name the time and place, Damsel.”

Mona let out another ineffable sigh of rage. “Great. Now if the two village bikes would stop flirting with each other, can we please get to the bottom of what is wrong with Charlie?”

Pansy shook out her dark hair and adorned an expression of angelic wisdom. “Really Mona, I feel we shouldn’t over-simplify people. There are probably many, _many_ things wrong with him-“

Mona, sick of the interruptions and impatient with the direction her interrogation was going, suddenly gained a mad glimmer in her grey eyes. Possessing feline reflexes and leonine strength, Mona ripped the coffee cup from Pansy’s hand and tipped the contents to the ground.

Leaning close to Pansy’s face, she whispered; “Damsel _isn’t_ an ironic nickname.”

“….” Pansy said. “….”

With what was either cowardice or an acute sense of self-preservation, Marcus made a flimsy excuse about needed to feed Wynne and have a disciplinary meeting with a dragon, and ran as fast as he could down the corridor.

The Slytherin gazed at the Coffee-Exterminator, her new Arch-nemesis (at least for today), and worked out whether it would be more satisfying to punch her on the nose or turn her into something nasty. Mona returned Pansy’s unyielding look- which was impressive as it made a knife look cuddly in comparison.

“I think you should know,” said Pansy, her voice laced carefully with calm. “That I’m not known for my patience, my ability to forgive, nor the tendency to lose battles. I pulled out a wand on the last two people who argued with me, and in both cases I was _trying_ to be diplomatic. You come to me with coffee-bothering plots and accusations when I’m working to a deadline, and therefore at my most volatile.” She sighed, the knot of guilt weighing heavy. As much as she wanted to deny Mona’s accusation and send the little madam flying; Mona was undeniably correct. Pansy had done something wrong.

She admitted to Charlie that she was best friends with a guy who was intimately entangled with the horrors his family had to go through. Charlie hated _Harry Potter_ merely because of the unpleasantness he brought, and at least Potter saved the wizarding world in some semblance of retribution. Pansy was probably a constant reminder of the awfulness he tried to leave behind. A perpetual shadow representing all the wrong done to Bill and Fred and Ginny and whoever else Charlie knew. There would be a long list of the dead. There always was.

“Oh for God’s sake, Mona,” Pansy said exasperatedly, changing tack. She couldn’t deny she’d done something to Charlie, but perhaps he could try to fix it just a little. “Why don’t you just ask him out?”

“What? I- _no!_ I’m just worried about him! Concerned for his welfare!” Mona blushed and stammered, quickly looking about her to make sure no one had heard Pansy’s outburst. “Don’t change the subject!”

“If we go back to the previous subject, it would end up with me turning you into a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. And I don’t even know what one of them looks like. Please don’t deny that you’ve got hots for Goldilocks. It’s obvious, and in my fragile, uncaffeinated state I really can’t be doing with the arguing thing. I’ve got to save my intelligent thoughts for the Journal of Magizoology and remembering how to stay upright.”

Mona looked caught in indecision and completely derailed by Pansy’s alarmingly amiable tone. Her nose, that looked like it really belonged on an adorable woodland creature and not a person, wrinkled with unhappiness and she exclaimed. “Is it really that obvious? _Does he know_?”

Pansy chuckled. “No, your Prince Charming is more likely to sense the subtle nuances of a dragon’s emotion than he is to notice the flagrant overtness that you’ve got a whopping great crush on him.”

Mona looked like she was about to crumble. “I’ve had this crush for _seven_ months. It never takes a guy seven months to ask me out. Never.” Good for you, Pansy thought sardonically. Seven months was nothing in her Endless Saga of Unrequited Love. “And I have no idea if he even _likes_ me. He’s nice to _everyone_.”

“I find that disturbing too. Now, if you’d make me more coffee, I will tell you your new Plan of Attack. There will be a diagram, and seven easy steps that even an idiot like you can manage. I will even give you permission to use me as bitching fodder…”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Pansy poked the hissing sausages with the end of her wand and casually contemplated speeding up the whole cooking process with a well-aimed fireball. So she may end up with a meal consisting purely of carbon, but that would be a low price to pay to get out of the icy climate of the kitchen. Outside the wind bellowed, and she silently cursed the wranglers for abandoning her in the empty kitchen with _him_.

Caesar, Toothpick, Mona and she had come in cold and cheery, yelling for hot food and warm drinks. They had had a good day with the Longhorns, and D’Artagan had shown Pansy especial favour by biting everyone except her. Feeling rather proud that she had won the affections (or at least not won another enemy) in the teacup-sized dragon, she proclaimed that she’d cook lunch for everyone.

As soon as they’d entered the kitchen, Caesar and Toothpick upon seeing that it was solely inhabited by Charlie _I’ll-make-you-so-guilty-you-vomit-oh-and-I’m-horrifically-poor-and-ginger_ Weasley made their excuses and abandoned her to his chilly reception.

Mona did not leave, though neither did she ease the palpable awkwardness in the air. Things between Pansy and her had thawed slightly, though Mona barely hid her eye rolls at 60% of the things she said and Pansy occasionally felt the childish need to pull her perfect hair. Mostly she managed to overcome this desire. Mostly.

Mona too was being pointedly silent towards Charlie. Though this had nothing to do with the fact she was a Slytherin whose best friends were involved in the murder and persecution of muggles, and everything to do with the fact Pansy had strictly instructed her to.

* * *

 

“So… I just don’t talk to him?” the conversation had repeated for the forty-second time.

“Yep,” muttered Pansy as she shoveled frozen dung from Holding Cave 3. She wondered whether a face full of manure would help the message sink in.

“I don’t see how this will work. He doesn’t strike me as a boy who likes to play games.”

“True. You have to be patient, grasshopper.” _Patience Pansy_ , she reminded herself as well, _word this tactfully_. “And you’re right. Charlie is not a gaming man. He’s honest, and straightforward, and very, very dim. At the moment, you are a barrage of loveliness and incipient giggles. To make him sit up and take notice, you’ve got to be different. At least from a little while. Throw him a curve ball, have a little pout, be furiously silent at him like the wind!”

 _Well done_ , she congratulated herself as Mona nodded almost in comprehension, _you are the epitome of tact. Perhaps I’ll become a diplomat? Or con people out of money using only my words and devastating good looks?_

“Also,” Pansy added as an honest after thought. “It’s quite nice to have a break from that shrill talking thing you do when he’s around.”

A piece of frozen dung hit her on the back of the head.

* * *

 

What she would give for a frozen dung fight now. Instead Mona cut vegetables next to her in inimitable silence, frowning slightly as if she were trying to calculate the square root of 9438503943.22. Pansy could almost feel the weight of Charlie _not_ looking at her as he inhaled his food as fast as possible. The world felt strangely skewed when it was filled with his silence. Such a large presence turned into a absence.

 _He must not be very happy_ , a stray thought drifted into Pansy’s mind. She almost laughed. Who here was truly happy?

There was a quiet tapping at the window, followed by the shush and cold blast of air as it was opened.

“Post,” said Charlie gruffly. “For you.”

She turned. There was no smile on his face, but there was something in his expression that made the shame in Pansy’s stomach churn. Perhaps it was the fact his ocean-blue eyes were finally meeting her own, or the strange look of askance written across him. On the table a large Eagle Owl was finishing off his toad in the hole.

With an annoyed shrug he proffered the rolls of parchment toward her. She made sure her face was expressionless. She may feel culpable but she was never going to let him know it. Without movement or thanks, she accio-ed the letters from his grasp.

She elbowed Mona to take over the cooking as she perched herself on the counter to examine her haul. Three letters, pretty good. Sadly none from Luna, whose whimsical correspondence she had become rather used to. Her lyrical sentences were not only entertaining (usually inadvertently), but it was nice to know that someone else was panicking over essays and deadlines. Not that Luna ever seemed to panic, however Pansy assumed that “troubles with knitting patterns and formulaic ethnographies written by slugs” was akin to worry. It was also nice to hear from someone who was sincerely… nice. Whenever she complained to Draco about the course, he always informed her that she risked becoming an academic bore before chronicling his life as a gentleman of leisure (i.e. laziness).

She first opened the envelope of rich velum parchment that was adorned in faultless gothic hand. It was addressed in peacock-blue ink with the words “Pansy; ie Traitorous Hag-Wench of the Morn.” She smiled. Her favorite morally ambiguous friend had received her little gift.

Draco’s spidery calligraphy spelt out fond insults and accusations of her ‘meddling.’ As expected, he did not seem to entirely appreciate her application of an internship to Minerva’s Interesting Inventions and Cantakerous Clockwork Creations (referred to in polite circles just as The Emporium) on his behalf.

At the end of the note he had angrily written (you could tell he was angry by the extra swirls he added to his consonants in ‘fuck you’):

 

_There are so many things wrong with this. Firstly, the fact you expect me to take up a TRADE. The Malfoys haven’t been officially employed in over two centuries (yes, I know Malificar Malfory was Minister of Magic a mere six decades ago and Melliflori Malfoy set up that successful soap/narcotics business, but being a personae of power isn’t really a job now is it? For Malfoys it’s a way of life). Secondly, such an idiotic past time is likely to get in the way of the business of running my estate. I have lawyers to talk to, galleons to count and magical topiary to prune. Also, Mother could not be without my company and she’d be worried that I’d pick something up from the common folk, like disease, foul-language, an accent or poverty._

_Right, I’ve got to go survey my estate and persuade the new house elf to enter a game of jousting. And you imply my life isn’t fulfilling._

_Hope a dragon doesn’t eat you, because after this I’d rather like to give it a chance._

_Regards and Crucio to Your Nethers,_

_Draco_

_PS. Lastly, I don’t see why you’d even bother doing this. The altitude has obviously driven you quite mad. What on earth do you think would possess me to do this degrading work?_

Muffling a giggle, she turned the parchment over and wrote a quick note:

 

_“Curiosity, my young rantipole, curiosity and the need for distraction. Also, like it or not you have a talent for fiddling with thingamajigs and magical whatchamacallits._

[Flattery and shame would be the best way to persuade him, she had decided. It would be healthy for him to cease his moping, get some sunlight and actually interact with people who weren’t relations or servants].

 _Being an inventor is really rather a gentleman’s hobby (do note you’re not actually going to be paid for this role. You are after all an amateur, whose only experience is tinkering with evil wardrobes/wormholes and de-cursing medieval heirlooms/muggle torture devices). Believe me, you’ll enjoy it far more than moping around your little kingdom, harassing the help and chasing after walking hedges in the shape of giraffes (I do hope you were joking about the topiary, but from what I hear via the grapevine it sounds like a horrific possibility. Draco dear, you are far too young to be considered ‘eccentric’ and just the right age to be labeled ‘pitiful.’) It’s healthy for one to have talents for which one excels. Harry Potter surpasses most at Quidditch and world-saving_ [A low blow, but necessary], _Hagrid at spelling the three letter words on his shopping lists. What do you currently have? Even less. So get out the house and do something._

_Ditto (though it sounds a bit kinky),_

_Pans_

_PS. I understand that you’ll be sulking for a long time after this letter, so I’ll take the opportunity to thank myself now for such a considerate plan in entering you into the world of work. A feat leading you to a life of happiness, fulfillment, and inspiring you to deify me and begin ‘The Cult of Pansy Parkinson: hero, leader, hand model.’”_

The second letter was from Scamander. Results for the literature review and pilot research study. Pansy, swiftly coming down from her saintly moment of pride, began to tremble. The research paper she had been reasonably happy with; it was clear, concise, the data made sense. But the review was fuelled on little but coffee, exhaustion and insanity. She was reasonably sure that what was written down on the parchment was not an analysis of dragon husbandry with hypotheses relating to strengthening Longhorn genes, but instead a chronicle of one woman’s descent into madness.

The night before she owled the essay off, she had woken up just before dawn, absolutely frantic. She had dreamt that she had replaced the whole reference list with a slew of foul language and drawings of hippogriffs in bizarre domestic scenarios. One was baking a cake while another was dusting the fireplace foolishly in a  nest of twigs. So vivid was the dream and acute her sleep-deprivation, that she felt the need to re-read every word as the sun came up.

Flipping over the pages of purple marking, she reached the grade.

 _Distinction_ , it read in bold, bright letters next to a little complimentary paragraph. She quelled an excitably shriek that rose in her throat, yet she knew her pleasure shone through. In the corner of her eye, she saw Charlie angle his head toward her in curiosity.

Never had she felt so happy and reassured that she could do research. The pain and the panic were worth it, because apparently _she was a freaking GENIUS_. The feeling was almost as good as Fire Whisky kisses, being a dragon’s favourite, and coming second to Hermione Granger in a Transfiguration exam.

The feeling lasted all of five seconds, as she turned to the research paper to find that it was very much, definitely not a Distinction. In fact it was about as far as you could get from a distinction without causing Pansy to throw herself at the mercy of the Ironbelly. In shouty, red letters the words “WRONG,” “IRRELEVENT,” and “Fine, but this doesn’t exactly add anything new to the field…” were strewn across the pages.

Adieu, academic reassurance. Adieu, flighty feeling of self-worth. Adieu, Professor Scamander who has an awful lot of explaining to do…

The confusion was enough to keep her numb as she opened her last letter.

“What is that stench?” coughed Mona as the sausages began to take on a healthy burnt look.

Pansy sniffed the dusty-pink envelope. “Expensive but vile rose perfume and the overwhelming scent of bourbon. Must be a letter from my Mother.”

It was by far the worst letter she received that day. 

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy picked a direction, and marched out across the stormy terrain. The wind helped whip the tears from her face, and the sound filled her ears so she couldn’t hear her own pathetic sobs. A small sardonic part of her recalled that she had never cried quite so often as she had in the last few months. It was the problem with not sharing a dorm with Slytherins- people were more likely to comfort than ridicule you. This led to weakness, embarrassment, and ugly, gasping sobs.

The wind buffeted her with blunt elbows, and the clouds scowled until they were almost bruised purple. Wetness touched her face in icy spears.

“Wonderful. Pathetic _fucking_ fallacy!” she screamed at the rain. She screwed her eyes tight shut.

If this had been fiction- some one, anyone, even Charlie, would have read the letter left on the kitchen counter and run out to follow her into the raging weather. They would have wrapped her in a spare coat, and held her, and asked if she was okay. And because in this day-dream she was a normal person, she would have told them and they would have sympathized… and maybe, impossibly, solved it for her.

But instead the letter was crumpled in her hand, and would have been incomprehensible to anyone who read it anyway. She had left the hut with a casual mention that she was no longer hungry, grabbing nothing but her Slytherin scarf in a strange moment of solidarity and a flask of Firewhisky that she had hidden in the bookcase.

They’d be no romantic figures cutting aesthetic shapes on the horizon for her. No heart to hearts, or warm embraces from boys in blue jumpers. Just her, and the burn in her legs from fighting the hills, the fire on her lips from the whisky, and the impossible loss that smothered her like a second skin.

She opened her eyes expecting to see unforgiving spears of water, but instead saw snow.

It fell in tempestuous tufts, veiling the ground. Utterly ignorant to her, and utterly perfect. She stood motionless, hoping madly that it would freeze her too. If it froze her heart and numbed her feelings, perhaps she would be able to perpetuate. Perhaps she could be normal, live a life, if only it wasn’t for this guilt. For a second, the snow and daydream were a pleasant distraction.

She pulled her green hat further down over her ears and treacherous eyes, glaring at the indomitable mountains and swirling shapes in the air. Far away, a dragon’s roar echoed through the mountains. She recognized it as the call of the black dragon from her first day here, the one they comically named Maleficent. She guessed it was two, maybe three mountains away. Whether it was numbness or adjustment, she felt no fear when she heard it’s call again.

“Me too, Mal, me too.” She whispered to the wind.

Pansy wet her lips with the Fire Whisky while the sadness drowned her. At a slower pace she continued up the mountain path, dwelling on her dark thoughts.

Her Mother’s words felt burnt onto her mind. ‘Dear Pansy, I’ll never forgive you for what you did to your brother. Because of you he rots in Azkaban. Neither he nor I especially feel like spending Christmas with the reason our family is torn asunder, so I’ve gained permission for myself to spend the holidays with him. I’m sure you’ll sort something out. A bowl of arsenic perhaps? Toodles, Talitha xxx.”

…Well, it didn’t say that exactly. But it may as well have.

Pansy knew she was responsible, and though her Mother did not say it plainly in the letter, the subtext was obvious. The last remaining members of her family were divided because of her mere existence. No wonder they both hated her.

Pellinore Parkinson, Mother’s favourite, School Rebel, Death Eater, was perhaps the kindest of the Parkinson family and the least ambitious. He always used to joke that the Sorting Hat had spent a full hour deciding whether to place him in Slytherin or create a new house for slackers of his caliber. He had Edgar Parkinson’s patience, Talitha’s dark, delicate looks which translated so dashingly, and lacked Perseus’ cool distain. He was Pansy’s favourite, and the one whom she had hurt the most.

Most meeting the Parkinsons would assume that Perseus merely took after his father. He had the tall Parkinson frame, and the quiet reserve that Pansy, Pellinore and their Mother lacked. With them it was always witticisms, boisterous shouting, and loud debates over the dinner table. But Perseus was different. His silence was not shyness, it was rage. Unlike Pell, he was a true believer even before Voldemort’s rise. He believed every word of that mad man’s manifesto: death to the Mudbloods, Muggles and lower races. He felt sullied by the name Parkinson, known for their social climbing, new money and impure blood. For a while he had adopted their maternal name, Tremain, before Pansy and Pell had teased him mercilessly and he learnt of his Mother’s debaucheries. His unpopularity and early death meant that few even remembered his existence, let alone questioned the circumstances surrounding his demise.

The family never truly knew either, but they had their well-guarded suspicions. The timing of his initial disappearance aligned with the rise of Tom Riddle. There was no clue left in his room, and he had departed without a word. Months later his body was found in a forest just off Surrey. No Dark Mark showed on his skin, not that there needed to be.

After Pell joined the Death Eaters, Pansy brokered the question to him. Her query was nothing more than detached curiosity. There was no love lost between her and Perseus. Pellinore was the only brother she needed.

Usually Pellinore would not let her ask such questions, but he did this once. His hands shook as he smoked, and he let out a laugh that was more filled with hysteria than comedy.

“I found out on the first day. Crabbe, the elder and more gnarled one, took me aside and told me. I won’t tell you of the gory details, sweet P, it turns my stomach even now. Our dear Perseus was one of the first who found the Dark Lord, alongside Crouch Junior and that pathetic creature they call Wormtail. Merlin, I shouldn’t be repeating their names to you… Forget them. You’re in enough danger as it is.” She remembered the delicate bones in his wrists. How they held the cigarette and trembled, yet looked so elegant, like the bones of a bird. A year before he had been a young rake, nothing but ribs and half-hearted rebellion. Too well-dressed to care about much. They had never kept secrets back then, but that year every word exchanged had felt like the most precious treasure and most fearful danger.

“They called that bastard a hero,” his long eyelashes had fluttered with bewilderment. “Not that the circumstances surrounding his demise sounded particularly heroic. Too many exposed intestines for that nonsense. Though the fool had volunteered. Mad zealot… DTM, my dear, DTM.”

Don’t Tell Mother. It had been their constant refrain. Don’t tell Mother I’m burning the frilly nighties she bought me. Don’t Tell Mother about the Howler from Flitwick. Don’t Tell Mother that I’ve stolen the Mongolian Moonshine and I’ll let you have some.

When Edgar Parkinson, their elderly, distant but loving Father, had passed away in Pansy’s second year it had been Pell who kept Pansy sane all those Christmases. It had been him, who being male and witty and beautiful, would always be Talitha’s favourite, and who batted away Talitha’s constant aggravations and insults directed at her. They would sneak Butterbeer and giggle about Pell’s disastrous attempts to seduce the Head Boy. One year he enchanted all the Christmas decorations to pair up and waltz down the corridors. She had never laughed so hard as when the baubles challenged the nutcrackers to a dance off.

And now… now she wouldn’t even have her Mother to exasperate her. When her Mother had mentioned getting clearance to visit Azkaban, Pansy had foolishly believed it was for them both. How idiotic of her to assume Talitha would have a selfless thought in her life, let alone over this. How idiotic of her to assume Pell would want to see her…

She had collected gifts for him. Elegant black jumpers, books by his favourite authors, merchandise from the Holyhead Harpies. His favourite cigarettes that smelt of candle smoke and cloves. Perhaps Talitha could be persuaded to pass them on.

And here she’d been worrying about some silly boy who didn’t like her. The largest tragedies always come from within families. She should have remembered that.

In the distance, a gleam of orange caught her eye. Beneath her the bright white land led down to the lake where she had been uncouthly dropped on her first day. Beyond it’s waters the mountains rose, indomitable and hidden by low cloud and mist. The whirl of snow blinded her and she could not make out the shape, though it moved fast and true round the mountain base. Without thinking she apparated closer, and closer again.

It was a train.

A train of burnt orange traveling on tracks that were not there a day ago. It was slowing down, she was sure of it.

With a pop she apparated for a third time and came to a train stop located almost in the middle of nowhere. As if in a dream, the train gave a tooting cry and entered the station in a jolly chug of steam and snow.

The door opened, and down stepped a twiggy man. He wore a lumpy purple scarf and an irritatingly academic expression. As he stepped aside, a girl with a dreamy expression drifted passed him. She wore a yellow summer dress, utterly oblivious to the weather though it fell in turbulent clusters around them. The girl made a happy sound, though Pansy missed what she said, and ran toward Pansy embracing her like an old friend.

In Luna’s hug, Pansy thawed and melted like ice and tears.


	12. Chapter 12

Pansy told Luna almost everything. The ruined Christmas, the terrible loss she felt for her brother Pellinore, the cruelty of Talitha. Professor Scamander walked a polite distance ahead in the snow, carefully juggling a number of strange looking contraptions in his thin arms. Luna listened quietly as Pansy gushed, her words escaping into the relenting snow faster than her mind had time to sort them.

“And then in the letter- the one she- well, she had the nerve- I mean she hates me- Pellinore _should_ hate me, but Mama beat everyone to the punch with that one. But this… Taking Christmas, taking Pell! I just… I miss him so much.”

“Do you have the letter on you?” asked Luna. “It’s just, and I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not making any sense.”

If Luna Lovegood failed to understand her, then all was lost. This more than anything -more than the desire for comfort and sense- persuaded her hand to pass the letter to her unexpected friend.

For a few moments they walked wordlessly through the snow. Distantly, Pansy wondered how Scamander was dealing with his inconvenient crush on Luna. Then she recalled the damning grade on her essay and decided that glaring murderously at his wobbling frame was a much more worthwhile thing to be doing.

“Oh,” replied Luna concomitantly. “She’s rather blunt, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is a c***.”

“That’s not what I said-“

“I know.”

Luna folded the parchment carefully and handed it back to her. “There could be a reason for all this. Perhaps she couldn’t get clearance for two people to visit, and didn’t know how to word it nicely? Sometimes people have trouble expressing things. I’m sure you’ll spend Christmas Eve and Boxing Day with her. Really they’re no different to Christmas. Sometimes my father and I have a whole week of Christmases just to ensure we do it right.”

Pansy’s smile cut her face. The naivety with which Luna had spoken almost made those words sound like a possibility.

“Talitha doesn’t work like that. None of us do. She knows exactly what the subtext of that letter was: _We don’t want you_. For Parkinson’s there is no ‘subtle’ when it comes to making your point. Also, Malfo- I have friends whose families have managed to get group visitations.” _Not that all of them will make use of them_ , she thought bitterly.

“You can always spend Christmas with me,” Luna said shyly. “It tends to only be my Father and I, but sometimes we visit some of the neighboring wizard families. It’s usually great fun, especially now their kids no longer break my Christmas toys and try to use me as a sacrificial offering to Santa.”

“Luna, that’s really lovely,” _And exceedingly tragic_. “But I think I should just spend it at home. It’s safer that way.” Much less like charity. It’s much better to be alone, disgraced and unhappy, than let others know you are alone, disgraced and unhappy. Family motto #486. Why let embarrassment enter the equation as well? “And my usual holiday tradition is to drink too much and vomit on the Christmas decorations. You’re rising to the ranks of tolerated colleague, so it might be mildly unacceptable to do such a thing.”

“ _Friend_ , Pansy. I’m your friend.”

“Same thing? Wait- what are you doing? Why are you strangling my body with your arms?”

Luna laughed, and released her from the hug. “You are funny.”

She smiled. “Compliments and affection! By Merlin, you’ve deduced my weaknesses quickly. You’re probably toeing the line between potential archrival and lukewarm comrade.”

“Your weaknesses weren’t that difficult to work out. You sent me a whole basket of Bulgarian meat just because I complimented the handwriting in one of your owls.”

“False!” exclaimed Pansy, her wide mouth red and aghast. “It was a bribe! I don’t even like Bulgarian meat! I just wanted to extract all your essay ideas! It was a cunning plot!”

“…You sent me a bribe, _after_ the essay was handed in?” probed Luna. If Pansy didn’t know better, she would have said the dreamy look in Luna’s eye had become a touch sly.

“Quiet you. Or I’ll feed you to a mountain goat.” 

* * *

 

The next few weeks were filled with pleasant distraction. Pansy selfishly hogged Luna to herself, afraid that she’d lose her one ally in this camp. Not that the wranglers were behaving any differently toward her (neither was Charlie- his austere civility remained as immovable as ever), but she was terrified that Charlie would tell someone all the endless reasons she should be shunned. She was fond of the wranglers, however was grudgingly aware that their loyalty was not to her. These weren’t her Slytherins whose friendship had been cemented with blood, desire and desperation. These were strangers, and the worth of their friendship depended on as little as the hilarity of a joke or a cross word from a wronged Weasley.

However her unhappiness and worry was somewhat saved by the arrival of snow, and the breeze of cool, relaxing madness in the form of Luna Lovegood. Snow always had this effect on Pansy, like icy catnip. Whether it was the picturesque beauty of everything silent and perfect, or the way the winter landscape complimented her harsh looks making her more ice queen than pug-nosed monstrosity (or merely because it meant there was always a nearby chilly weapon) she flourished in this weather. While the other wranglers grumbled about the cold as they tramped their way up slippery paths, Luna and she would go on vast hikes up mountain trails and have wandering conversations about Snidgets (real) and Tumblewumps (probably not real) and the wonders of Narwhals ( _definitely_ not real).

The Ravernclaw (having found that her allergy to Winged Horses meant that she broke out in fuzzy pink rashes, in addition to her throat closing up and earlobes swelling to the size of quaffles) had decided to devote her year to finding the Crumple Horned Snorkack. Sadly she’d had no luck in the south of France, nor on any of the Grecian Islands. The search in Quebec, Atlantis, and Estonia had been equally unfruitful.

“But we have great hopes about Romania!” announced Luna, managing to hide any surprise at Pansy’s warm welcome. “From my calculations, and study of anecdotal sightings, this would be the perfect environment for them.”

“Well, I’m sure that a mountainous, dragon-filled terrain would be the most likely spot to find them… whatever they are,” agreed Pansy amiably. “And, why are you here, Professor?”

“Um, I wanted to check that your placement was going as planned, and of course, sort out your next situation- and Luna- well, her work with the Crumple Horned Snorkack, I believe, I going to be very, er…” stumbled Professor Scamander, his ears burning scarlet as he tripped over his feet. “Fertile. No, I mean, prosperous. ”

“It sounds like you have a lot of faith in her,” replied Pansy smugly. “What evidence have you found of this questing beast?”

“Snot!” announced Luna. “Invisible phlegm from this creature was spotted in Romania in the eighteenth century. Apparently a priest who had been surviving on nothing but a diet of berries and tree bark, wrote in his autobiography that he was having immense trouble with vast quantities of ‘translucent sludge.’ Apparently it was plaguing a town very close by. Daddy agrees with me that it could be nothing other than the elusive Crumple itself!”

“Obviously,” agreed Pansy, a cruel part of her feeling much more secure about the wayward direction of her own research.

“But Pansy, how have you found things here? Your expectations were so low about this placement that it can’t have been anything but wonderful,” Luna trilled happily as Pansy showed the pair into the warmth of the library. They had decided to commandeer this little-used room for their seminars.

Pansy’s smile froze slightly. Luna was, horrendously, correct. Apparently Draco was wrong; death and dragons were Pansy’s style, as were the crude, jesting wranglers and clear, high skies of Romania. Ever since the atmosphere had cooled between Charlie and her had she realized how happy she had been beforehand. The research was interesting, the company good, and she could not remember being quite so content for so long a period.

Beyond the guilt over Charlie, and the fear that he would poison how the others thought of her, there was the greater affliction of Talitha stealing her one chance to visit Pellinore. There was little to do about that except plot and send subtle hints for aid to her fellow Slytherins. Instead, she distracted herself with her new life here. A life filled with dragons, jokes, academic debate, unexpected friends… and unfortunate menial labour.

* * *

 

The mismatched pair spent most of their time seeking the best places for Luna to set up her environmentally-friendly traps. In fact, they were so environmentally-friendly that Pansy entirely doubted that they would work. Created out of a chimeric mix of orange wool and twigs, Luna claimed they would be the most inviting and harmless snare for the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. The wranglers were bemused by these strange apparatuses, and even more so by Luna’s dreamy ways and outlandish behaviour. Once, the conversation almost veered too close to mocking their new guest and Pansy was forced to levitate Baldrick by his ankles until he realized that pointing out that Luna’s wasn’t quite right in the head was unacceptable behaviour. Not that Pansy disagreed with this notion, but Luna was _Her Friend_ , and therefore was to enjoy a certain level of eccentricity free from reproach. (Unless it was Pansy doing the criticizing, in which case it was mostly fine.)

Such moments of critique were frequent during their tutor periods. On good days these times were enjoyably filled discussing Fantastic Beasts, the newest theories, and wildest debates. More often, it involved listening to Scamander trill boringly about bug-life and the correct way to cite papers and how “Statistics really is fascinating!” All the while the bashful professor tried to limit the number of times he gazed at Luna to five times a minute.

When discussions turned to their M.A.G.E projects, things tended to get heated and Scamander had some trouble with the alternating strangeness of his students. Pansy would often get over excited and overly involved in the debates, often siding with the scientist who had the most creative insults for his academic rivals. Scamander would do his best to staunch his confusion in the face of Luna’s illogical notions of mythical beasts being a reality and Pansy’s frequent sulking. Luna was perhaps the most troubling in these sessions and would poke polite but brilliantly sharp holes in both Scamander’s and Pansy’s ideas in a way that made them both doubt the nature of reality.

This was especially bruising one afternoon when Luna failed to listen to reason regarding the well-known fact that dragons do not breathe _metaphorical_ fire. Even Scamander, enamoured as he was, found this diversion from reality distracting and tried his best not to pull his hair out as he pointed that there were a lot of wranglers with very real burns. Pansy had given up by this point and was distantly wishing the fresh burn on her forearm _was_ metaphorical, when Luna perked up and exclaimed.

“Well, it may be the case that not all their fire is metaphorical-“

“What do you even mean by metaphorical? Not physical? Does it exist only in thought or verse?” Scamander sounded as if he was about to babble himself into an asylum. Pansy wished she had popcorn.

Luna let out a sigh- one that almost sounded annoyed. “You may be a renowned academic but you do not know everything, Professor. The world is full of more mysteries than you can ever conceive. And I hardly think someone who misspells _Xenotopius Corragulatorious_ in published articles should inherently claim the last word on everything. It’s embarrassing for a man of your standing.”

There was an ominous silence in the study room. A chill draft hissed through a cracked windowpane, as if the elements themselves had let out a gasp. Distantly, Pansy wondered if she had become a bad influence on Luna, just as Mona had warned her the day previously. (A claim that she had boldly refuted.) All she’d done in the two weeks of Luna’s visit was persuade her to try some Firewhisky, taught her how to play (and cheat) at Poker, rambled about some of the more _ahem_ refined points of male anatomy (and how Pansy had come to find out herself), and…. And maybe filled her little, clever head with some rather revolutionary thoughts.

 _Oh shit_ , thought Pansy leaning back on her chair. _I’ve corrupted the incorruptible._

Scamander looked affronted. His quick blue eyes (pale, wise and grey- quite different to Charlie’s, whose eyes were so blue they seemed to burn reminding you of summer days and cobalt seas…. _Merlin, where did that comparison come from?_ ) briefly became naked as he removed his silver spectacles to clean them, composing himself as he did so.

“Quite right, Miss Lovegood.” And he burst into laughter. “But I am a man of science, and though my spelling is at fault, I cannot lend weight to such unsubstantiated claims. Your thoughts, Pansy?”

“I think Luna is delightfully mental. If she argues for metaphorical fire, she’s probably right somewhere.”

Their class concluded, and Scamander ran off to discuss Health & Safety with Wynne. Luna began to collect her notes. She seemed to concentrate on her wandering hum more than she usually did.

“Luna…” Pansy began, mischief tickling at her voice. “I’ve never seen you annoyed with anyone before.”

“Hmm? No? Well… he was being patronizing.”

“You were being ridiculous.”

Her pallid eyes widened, hurt.

“You are one of the cleverest people I know. You must see that some of your theories are… somewhat out there?”

“If you don’t seek, you won’t find. If you don’t question, you won’t learn.”

“That’s a quote from Scamander Junior’s book.”

“Is it?” A ghost of a flush lightened her cheeks.

“Yes,” Pansy probed. Luna didn’t get ruffled. This was new… and interesting. If this had been Daphne, or Millicent, or even Malfoy, Pansy would be teasing incessantly about crushing on their Professor.

Casting her black eyes to the snow-white world outside, she caught herself from speaking further. A red head appeared at the doorway. He was smiling, jovial, saying some joke to Marcus behind him. He had yet to notice Pansy in the room.

“The Cannons may actually win a match this season- oh, hey Luna, do you mind if we steal the room?” Charlie smiled easily, but his lip caught when he saw Pansy.

“We were just leaving.” Pansy shouldered pass them, hearing a distant goad or joke from Marcus. She did not care enough to respond.

Her pale friend followed her out the door, her face the typical mask of wistful contentment. Two male laughs echoed down the hallway, their humor boisterous and isolating.

Luna had had a hard life of Hogwarts, even before the war. Friendless, full of harsh jokes and unshared pastimes. It would be so much easier to handle the jibes and the loneliness if you were too stupid to notice, wouldn’t it? To ignore the ridicule and cruelty if you were more caught up in a dream world or fabricated stories?

Yet she wasn’t stupid. Luna had a sharp mind, as well as a compassionate one. Pansy gazed at her pensive face, lost in thought. It was a kind of armour just like Pansy’s fury. Probably equally ineffective to other people’s words and looks.

Teasing about Scamander… It would cripple any feeling Luna had for him before it ever grew and would probably hurt her more than a few laughs were worth. Scamander was growing on Pansy. His tweedy nature was grating, but it was becoming more and more obvious how young he truly was; merely a breath older than them. He seemed to enjoy humoring their wild debates and occasionally enthralled them with tales of his travels.

“Why don’t I help you set up some Snorkack snares this afternoon?” she offered. Luna smiled with relief and surprise.

* * *

 _People aren't accepting of things they don't know, so why would I give them a chance to despise me?_ Pansy’s words echoed around his skull.

 

_How can you stand there, and tell me none of these factors would influence the way you thought about me, when they're the most important factors of all?_

_Either you're a liar or so secure in your pureblood and Gryffindor background that you don't see the truth._

Charlie’s jaw clenched tight. The porch skirting round the hut usually held all of the wranglers at this time in the evening. As the moon rose they would joke and bicker over cards and lashings of Firewhisky. Pansy had melded into the group surprisingly easily for one so… different. The magizoologists were used to rough work, turning in early and waking with the dawn. She pestered them into staying up late, drinking too much and revealing stories about themselves, all the while keeping her own tales close to her chest. There was always an air of collectedness about her; the clean lines on her clothes matching the sharp features of her face. It was at odds with the muddy array of wranglers practically adorned in their waterproofs and well-worn gear.

Yet it was a self-conscious collectedness. Any one who had seen Pansy throw a tantrum, toss her head back with loud laughter until her face crinkled with delight, or spontaneously reach out to comfort someone would see this cold, immaculate air dissolve unreservedly. As much as she wanted to be aloof, there was part of Pansy that could not help but to throw her heart at you.

She didn’t seem to have anything against Muggles or Muggle-born; Toothpick and she were as thick as thieves. Nor was there a Dark Mark on the smooth sword of skin on her arm. Yes, she did mock Charlie for being poor… but he wasn’t. When he was younger, his parents had been comfortably middle-class, it was only later with the advent of numerous children did their purse strings begin to pull tight. Now, he had a comfortable wage- potentially the lowest of all the Weasleys, but more than enough for he and his limited interests. Also, before the discovery of the Slytherin secret, the joke had seemed characteristic of their friendship. The fact he became comfortable teasing her with “House Elf Brat,” and she with her numerous retaliations would joke that he was ginger, typhoid-stricken and lived in a comfortable hole in the wall, made it seem like they were friends. Only good friends could tease each other like that, _because it meant nothing_. Back then he laughed it off, only now in the light of her revelation did it gain a tone of insidious animosity.

He had meant it when he promised nothing she could say would change how he thought of her. At least he hoped he meant it. If only he could translate his thoughts into actions. If only he could get the image of Fred being felled out of his mind so he could think clearly…

Charlie knew that she was probably sitting in the Sanctuary’s library right now, pouring away over an essay. What he had previously perceived as intelligence and determination, was now coloured green with ambition and stubbornness.

“Hello!” called a clear voice. From the direction of the Fort, Mona strode towards him holding two cups. Despite the beckoning darkness, her smile was bright. For once, Charlie did not feel up for company. “I saw you sitting out here and thought you needed some tea. Why are you sitting out here all alone, anyway? It’s a bit cold.”

Charlie’s skin seemed immune to the autumnal air, his dark thoughts kept his blood hot and agitated.

“Just wondering where everyone was,” he lied, taking the tea as Mona sat down beside him. The view before them was breath-taking; the clean air cutting across the sweeping mountains as the sun dipped it’s head.

“Think they’ve all taken the chance to turn in early while Pansy’s occupied with the paper. Her constant late-night card games are getting a little relentless and annoying. A bit like her really.”

Charlie frowned and surveyed the chipped cup in his hand. Mona leant forward and touched him gently on the arm- she was always kind.

“Has something happened? You and she seem to be going to lengths to avoid being in the same room. Not that I blame you. Unlike the others, I don’t exactly adore the new snob in our midst. She’s kind of a bitch.”

He turned to her, blue eyes contemplative. “Do you think that?”

Mona held his look for a moment, but found the steel in his gaze quelling. It was not that his gaze held any cruelty, but it lacked the kindness that all of his looks and actions were soften with. Instead, his serious expression was merely one of frankness. He sincerely wanted to know her opinion. Mona shifted uncomfortably.

“No… I did. Not any more. She’s definitely not my favourite person ever. She’s not consistently nice, funny or generous, but she isn’t as bad as I thought. I gave her a bit of a hard time a few weeks ago,” Mona laughed, her blond curls shaking in the breeze. “And the cow turns round and does me a giant favour. God, I hate being indebted to someone I dislike. What’s your problem with her?”

The silence endured uncomfortably. “…I don’t really have a problem with her. At least I don’t want to have one. It’s to do with the silly house system my school had- and it doesn’t really bother me… the thing is… it just means that some of her friends, or people she was tied to, were involved in the Second Wizarding War. On the other side.”

“Oh,” said Mona, setting down her cup. She was one of the ones who had agreed to join Charlie in the Battle of Hogwarts. Many of their fellow wranglers had- they loved Charlie, and sincerely worried what such a dictator would mean internationally. She understood a little of the loss he felt. Seeing the carcasses of children, dead at their own school, was an experience she failed to scour from her mind.

“Was she… a Death Eater? A supporter of Thomas Riddle?”

Mona heard Charlie release a long, wavering breath. “I don’t know- I mean, I don’t think so. She would be in prison otherwise.”

“And your only evidence is that she was in a certain house at school? What was it? Does Hogwarts divide it’s students up between The Psychopaths, The Idiots, The Swots and The Incredulous?” Mona said, her voice reaching a high pitch. She had long known Hogwarts had some strange ideas, but this was ridiculous.

“You joke…” muttered Charlie darkly. “Gryffindors are the brave and the reckless. Hufflepuffs are the loyal and kind. Ravenclaws are the one offs and nerds. And then there’s Slytherin; famed for ambition, loyalty to their own, and being pureblood.”

“That’s rather reductive,” replied Mona, her eyes narrowing. “People are more complicated than that- and Slytherin can’t possibly be completely pureblood. You know your history as well as I do- pureblood was just a term engineered during the formation of International Magical Secrecy. By that point every one had so many muggle marriages that the term pureblood was preposterous.”

“I know,” though really Charlie’s grasp of history was a little tenuous. All he truly knew about the purebloods was their ever-reducing circle of possible marriages, their strange pride in their inbreeding, and the fact the Weasleys were listed among them. Weasley was an old-name, historically quite liberal in it’s stance toward muggles. Yet Pansy’s words about him being _privileged_ continually reverberated through his skull. It seemed ridiculous that a family derided for their poverty would have privilege- though in this, he supposed, they were rather blessed. He had nothing against muggles, nor muggle-born. All the trouble he had with purebloods was because he stood for muggle rights openly. All the insults, violence, and entanglement in the war were because he chose to be a target. Muggle-born didn’t choose, it was imposed on them. And even his family were uncomfortable with some topics… Their relation, the accountant- rumoured a sqib, was an individual rarely discussed, let alone someone they ever had any contact with.

By Merlin, lectures on equality by a Slytherin- what next? A seminar on anger management by Harry Potter?

“But my problem with her- _with it_ \- not that I have a problem-“ stuttered Charlie, unsure where his thoughts were going. He was unsure of his agitation, it’s source, where it was leading. He felt like for the past few days his life had been thrown off it’s comfortable tracks and his mind was wheeling uncontrolled and unchecked in a dangerous direction.

“I think you do,” muttered Mona, her expression tightening at the eyes. He had never seen Mona look like this, at least not toward him. It was as if she were completely reconsidering him. “You just don’t have the courage to admit what it is.”

Charlie blew an angry puff of air into the night sky. He felt embarrassed and angry. Why on earth was Mona being like this? It was hard enough Pansy changing- let alone Mona having a complete personality transplant.

“You won’t understand. I don’t even know how to explain it. Up until now, I thought Pansy was amazing. She was funny, and quick-witted, and bold. Tough as old boots. Different to anyone I’ve ever met- and now? Now I feel like I’ve been completely deceived.”

Mona looked at him incredulously. “She’s still the same obscene, narcissistic snob that she was when she first stepped off that blasted train. And in no way has she tried to hide it. By Merlin, Charlie, what an idiot you are sometimes. You’ve even got me defending her.” She buried her head in her hands, and looked like she vastly regretted sitting down.

“It sounds to me,” came a voice that sounded only half-conscious. “Like you’ve been rather unfair to Pansy.”

The frustrated wranglers turned to what looked like a turquoise woolen rabbit with tufts of milk-white hair escaping. Luna drifted up the porch steps and sat cross-legged before them.

“Do forgive me for interrupting,” she continued. “But I was wondering what had been the matter with Pansy- I was pretty sure it was you, Charlie, but I didn’t really want to make any accusations.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Sorry to bear are bad news,” hummed Luna, opening a thick-spined book on her knees and making flowery notes in the margins. “She’s spent the last couple of days gossiping to me about everyone here. Telling me about Kerov’s shadowy past, Toothpick’s secret talent of cracking three eggs at a time, and the dreamy way Marcus’ hair glows gold in the sun. But about you, she’s perfectly polite. Rather unnatural really.”

Charlie blinked, trying to collect his thoughts.

“I don’t think Charlie’s been cruel to her. If anything it would be the opposite. I mean, Charlie’s lovely. And she… isn’t. Usually.” Mona said, not sounding entirely convinced.

“You idealized her,” continued Luna, her hand drifting to a gold charm on her necklace. It’s large circumference glinted in the lamplight, like the golden eye of a galleon. For a second she looked terribly unhappy. “There’s no greater harm you can do to some one than think they are more or less than human. What else can they do but disappoint you?”

Before Charlie could answer, a piercing warmth spread from the centre of his chest. His hand sought the silver chain at his neck and pulled the black dragon tooth out from beneath his shirt. The air around the deadly point shifted and blurred.

“Intruders,” muttered Charlie. He leapt up, reaching for one of the brooms leaning on the edge of the porch. His stocky shape went from one of bow-legged brutality, to an elegant arrow disappearing wordlessly into the night sky.

“Muggles?” asked Luna, her voice calm but gaze watchful.

“Expecto Patronum,” cast Mona, a lynx leaping out from the end of her wand. “Tell Wynne and the others,” she instructed the ghostly shape, and it too bounded off into the darkness. “Can’t be muggles, our distraction spells would make them so dizzy they’d pass out before they got with twenty miles of the place. But if it’s wizards, then where’s the…?”

The wrangler stood poised on the deck. Her muscles pulled taunt against this invisible attack. The air remained silent and immovable before them-

Until the door cracked open and a she-demon wailed, “This _effing_ tooth is burning my skin off! What on earth is happening?”

Pansy’s indignant face hardened further when she saw Mona’s expression. “Really, what’s happening?”

“Intruders- they have magic but our defense doesn’t seem to be in the sky. It should be working,” Mona growled, confused, eyes continually scanning the violet horizon. “Charlie’s already flown off, and I need to go meet the others. You two stay here.”

“We could help,” offered Luna.

“No, Luna, let the professionals do their job,” retorted Pansy. But there was a catch in her throat. Her wranglers against an unknowable foe? People here to steal her dragons? _Her_ M.A.G.E project? She didn’t like it. Yet there was little she could do to help. She was never trained for this kind of thing. There was no three-headed dog or Triwizard Tournament to prepare her, just spotty Defense Against the Dark Arts training and a year pretending to learn unforgiveable curses. Her perfected jelly-legs jinx was unlikely to be of use against poachers.

“Actually Luna, that would be great. If you apparate to Wynne’s office, they’ll have work for you to do. See ya, Pans.”

The two popped out of existence leaving her alone, bristling against the darkness. There was no plea for help, no guilt-trip against her cowardliness. They were too busy for that. They had a Sanctuary to protect. They knew what to do and what was needed of them.

 _You idiot_ , thought Pansy and prepared to apparate to Wynne’s office too. The ire that someone was on _her_ land, endangering _her_ people and _her_ dragons was just enough to rival her desire for self-preservation.

But her eyes landed on an object cast forgetfully next to two abandoned cups of tea. Her hand shook a little as she picked it up.

Twelve inches, ash, unicorn core, as unbending as her own. _Charlie’s wand_. There was a slight dip near the wand’s base, just above a knot in the wood, where his calloused thumb had worn it away.

 _But I’m not the only idiot here_. Her stomach felt like it was falling from up high. She tried to breathe but it was as if there were stones in her lungs. Blood pumped in her ears, as she scrunched her eyes and thought furiously. _He flew off, so he went to a dragon pen you can’t apparate to._

_Oh the idiot, idiot, idiot._

_Think Pansy. Think_.

Her eyes flew open. The Longhorns.

Without another worry or warning, she grabbed the last broom and chased the man who hated her into the dark and dangerous night.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

The moon rose high and bright, casting an almost violet brilliance to the snow below her. It would have been beautiful, if it hadn’t been so fucking cold and she so fuelled by anger and fear that her thoughts seemed to scatter before her. The old Cleansweep was slow, and buckled every time the wind blasted. Yet still she leaned on, pushing it further and faster, afraid that her eyes would miss the red gleam of his hair or the twisting, treacherous air would drown his shouts.

His forgotten wand was clenched tight in her fist. It felt foreign. The wood cool, almost distainful. Her faithful eleven-inch cedar with dragon-heart string always spread warmth through her fingertips. Despite this, she trusted it. Edgar Parkinson had told her horror story after horror story of wizards attempting to use the wands of others and having disastrous effects; spells back-blasting, self-combusting, or just failing to work. He may have told her this to stop her stealing her brothers’ wands, but the message had stuck rather well. Charlie’s wand wouldn’t pull that kind of crap, she was sure, but Pansy wasn’t going to test it either way.

 _That blasted Weasley, with his blasted short-sightedness and idiot hair and damned ideals_. Pansy let her anger rise and rise within her. It masked her worry and fear. She needed to shout down all the uncertainties and inner pleas to run back and hide. She was reasonably certain she’d be useless in a fight. All she was good for was lies and deception. If she was going to hit some one with a successful curse or left hook, it would probably only be if she could surprise them with it. All her talk and threats were just words and wasted air. The impression that she was a powerful adversary was an act maintained by strutting, shouting orders and making sure she had a following of friends and minions to back her up. The threat of her was enough to avoid any actual confrontation. She could spring a good curse and hex with the best of them, but face to face with nowhere to run? She had no idea.

She didn’t stick around long enough to find out at the Battle of Hogwarts. She would have had she known that so many of her friends had stayed; Daphne Greengrass, Miles Bletchley, Hestia and Flora… Perhaps if she’d stayed they would be here now, instead of her. Perhaps all that time protecting them throughout that year; training everyone to fake curses, hiding from Fenrir’s “visits,” bribing and blackmailing the Carrows, falsifying papers for all those whose blood wasn’t as pure as it should have been… perhaps that would have meant something.

Draco, Theo, Blaise, Goyle, herself… out of all the Slytherins, they least deserved to survive. Assassinators, sons of murderers, bullies, cowards and general dirty workers. Why did Daphne, who liked to read weepy romance novels and sing off key, have to die? Miles was a menace but he giggled like a child if anyone said a dirty word, and he could have been a professional Keeper had Fenrir not… not… The twins were about as unpleasant a pair as you could find, but they were prodigies in Arithmancy, and turned against their family – _the Carrows themselves_ \- to fight for bloody Potter and his gang. Dead, the both of them.

Pansy swore to herself, swore on every fiber of her incensed being, that she was going to save Charlie from whatever jape he’d inevitably got himself in and tell him of their sacrifice. She was a coward, ambitious, and ingratiated with liars and murderers, but she was going to show him that not all of her people are like that. Some of them were strong-willed and brave. Some of them turned on their own blood to fight for a boy who never even knew their name.

The last of her fears had burned up on the coals of her anger, and yet as suddenly as the rage had risen- it sank. An unnatural cold swept through her. Even on that winter night, high in the frozen air, a spear of hoarfrost entered her. Beneath her woolen jumpers and thick coat, her very bones felt like they were imbued with a despair so hard and so heavy that they would drop towards earth like a stone.

Charlie’s disgusted face swam before her, full of righteous hate and overwhelming her with guilt.

Draco wasting away in his mansion. _I can’t be with you. I won’t be with you._

Millicent abandoning her for bigger and better things.

Talitha’s coldness. Pellinore’s absence.

 _Pellinore_ …

Death after death, funeral after funeral.

She just wasn’t good enough, she’d never be good enough. Not poised enough for the Malfoys. Not pretty enough for her Mother. Not virtuous enough for Charlie.

The creeping sadness was familiar. It echoed back to the time, six years ago on the Hogwarts express, when the Dementors had drifted onto the train bringing a fog of gloom so thick that Pansy believed she would never recover.

With dread, she looked down.

There, on the untouched snow, was an army of them. Dementors drifting like silent death up the mountain, cloaks curiously still in the wind. A sickening feeling rose up like bile. Dementors could sense happiness and warmth a mile off, and the only figure out here at this time would be…

Pansy redirected the broom up the mountain, racing the demonic figures below. The gates of the Longhorn pen crowned with their ominous words loomed ahead.

She almost didn’t see him.

She almost didn’t notice the slight undulation of darkness at the foot of the gate. The darkness that wrinkled like a cloak in the breeze.

“ _Inferno_ ,” yelled Pansy, descending like a bat out of hell. (In other words; irate, confused and terrifying for a thing so small).

A tongue of flame disappeared into the Dementor, leaving no sign of harm or spoil. Yet it was distraction enough- the thing rose from where it had been crouched over it’s victim, and turned to face Pansy.

For a wonderful moment, she did not think it too late.

Charlie’s body was collapsed upon the floor, his upturned face pale and broken in the moonlight. There was no sign of life on his face; only the glint of ice where the Dementor’s breathe had frozen his tears.

The deadened face stared blankly into the distance. Pansy was sure that no soul lived behind the cold, blue gaze.

 

 

He moved, reluctantly.

The coldness filled Charlie’s bones with lead. It seeped into him, unlocking every bad memory, every bad thought in one huge, unending rush. Bill, scarred and scared. Ginny admitting her fears about Harry, and he unable to comfort her. His parents risking life and limb for some ragged orphan on their doorstep.

His loneliness.

Fred. _Fred_.

The lack of laughter in the house.

George’s isolation.

The bodies of friends, lining door ways and old familiar corridors. Blood and guts staining the Charms room where he had spent so many hours snoring through classes. Fires burning on the Quidditch pitch where he had caught his first snitch.

Men in masks murdering children.

Friends becoming killers.

Pansy’s absence. Her accusing stares. Her lips closed, quiet, absent of laughter. Her.

 

His lips were so ready to accept the kiss.

 

But she was there. She was stopping it. Her face cut a sharp shape in the light, hair windswept and dismantled, disappearing behind the Dementor. Her lips moved slowly, snarling, angry- as always. It was like hearing her underwater. Behind him were growls. The longhorns, small and young as they were, prowled the edge of their enclosure. Tongues of flame licked their mouths. They were unafraid, and unaffected by the Dementor. All they desired was to protect their territory. Sound returned to Charlie as the old sentinel retreated.

It was withdrawing toward Pansy. Her face flashed orange, teeth bared, as fireball after fireball left her wand. Still the Dementor made it’s slow, inexorable path toward her.

“GET UP, WEASLEY. _Inferno. Sectum Sempra. Crucio._ CRUCIO!” Still the Dementor approached, unharmed and hungry.

“Avada Kadavra. _Oh fucks sake, Locomotor wibbly!_ ”

A pain spread from his forehead. It felt dulled by the cold and his distance. He looked to see where the sting had come from. A stick was in front of him. His stick. His _wand_.

“Damn you, damn you both. _Fumunculus_. Oh… Oh Merlin. _Expecto Patronum_!”

Nothing happened.

She reversed down the hill. Charlie saw her turn her back to check behind her. Her face looked ill when it returned to gaze at him.

Pansy’s jaw, which jutted out determined and impetuous against the world- that chin, his _favorite_ chin- wobbled. Her heavy brow sunk into her dark eyes. Those eyes which shone like tortoise shell in the sunlight.

“Happy thoughts,” his voice croaked as if coming from very far off. He eased himself from the floor. Everything felt numb. “You need a happy thought for that spell to work.”

A flicker of hope interrupted the fear on her face. “Got it. Let’s Peter Pan this bastard.”

He thought of his first encounter with a dragon. His first flight on a broom. “Expecto Patronum.”

She thought of stroking a unicorn’s nose. Pellinore’s wit. Getting into Hogwarts. “Expecto Patronum.”

Winning the Quidditch cup. Dad’s promotion. “Expecto Patronum.”

Firewhisky kisses, and the inevitable loss that followed. “Expecto Patronum.”

He thought of Fred and George laughing in their shop. And then of Fred’s body, dead and broken. “Expecto Patronum.”

 

Pansy and Charlie caught each other’s eye. It was a strange moment to share. Their mutual dread, but also mutual comfort that they weren’t alone. The fear for the other, but not themselves. Each memory, every happy memory they had was tainted by another. It’s depression marring the spell. Nothing was purely perfect, neither in the angry girl nor confused boy.

Charlie gave a half-hearted smile, and whispered: “Sausages. Arguments in the library. Coffee. House elf brat. Poker games in the dark.”

Pansy, understanding, grinned in response. “Looking after the Longhorns. An accurate impression of someone dying from boredom. Cups of tea. Poverty-stricken red heads… _Sausages_.”

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” They both yelled.

A silvery mist surrounded the Dementor. Angered and surprised it escaped down the mountain, like mercury slipping from human touch. Upright, Charlie staggered forward and saw what had made Pansy’s face turn pale with fear. A dozen dark shaped were drifting up towards them.

He took her hand, feeling it’s smallness beneath his rough fingers.

She squeezed back. “Again. And you better think of something bloody happy, Weasley, or I’ll give you the Dementor’s kiss myself.”

And strangely, her threat was enough. He laughed.

“You’re amazing,” he said, numb and drunk and ill with the sadness. “Luna’s right. I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry, Pansy.”

Her bold eyes softened. “I know. But let’s think perky thoughts, Mr Gryffindor. I expect you to step up to the mark to save the day, you know. Then I can use my Slytherin scheming to take the credit.”

Beneath them, the ghouls of despair rose up the mountain. What could two fragile humans whose lives were filled with death, war and self-doubt do against a dozen, dozen Dementors?

“I won’t let you down.”

Together they screamed the spell, laughing in the face of death and hopelessness.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Before them, the darkness fled.

Two shapes, large and glowing white, sped down the hill scattering the night before them. The fearsome forms raced nose to nose toward the Dementors. Two beasts of power and protection. Two Patroni keeping them from despair. The Dementors flew back at their approach, slipping away like black mercury.

Pansy let out an unwilled gasp.

They weren’t dead. They were cold and hurt and alive.

She looked at Charlie, and saw the same tired relief spread over his features. He was safe, thank Merlin. It was all okay. For once, it was all okay. The solidness and surety of his palm in hers promised this.

The frozen air sang in her lungs though her body felt near to collapse. The chill of living ran through her, and a surge of pride rose up. She’d made something beautiful. A happy, strong magic that ran towards danger and repelled it.

Charlie let go of her hand, and placed it on the crook of where her neck and shoulder met. She felt his weight go and slid her arm up his back to support him. Her palm met the space between his shoulder blades, fingers reading the spine and muscle. Beneath the layers of clothes she could feel him shiver. Yet he smiled down at her, red curls burning despite the grey hue of his face.

“I guess I should be the one they call Damsel from now on.”

There was a strange absence in Pansy. The anger that constantly burned in her, which lit up like oil on an open flame with the ease of a word or unspoken thought, was drowned with relief. She felt it’s calmness and pleasure soak up through her bones and smooth her face.

She leapt, arms over shoulders and head into neck, breathing in the living smell of him. Charlie braced back as the unannounced weight of Pansy fell into his arms.

“Something bad happened. And no one died. _No one_ died.”

He paused, unsure of what to do, then gathered her more into his grasp. Charlie leant his nose into the line of her collarbone, and let out a sigh of empathy. His right hand stroked her back, as his left kept her tight to him.

“I know,” he said, feeling empty and not. “I know. It’s okay. You made it okay.”

That moment of tight security was almost perfect. She did not feel the need to shout or scream and his arms holding her finally felt like acceptance. An acknowledgement of the sly Slytherin bitch she was, and of the fact her friends were murderers- but that this did not mean she was.

 

The shame about moments is, of course, their transience.

 

There was a broom lying by the gate of the dragon pen. It lay abandoned, like a loose exclamation mark. The one Pansy had used had been flung abandoned down the hill during her race to get to him.

But there was Charlie’s broom, leaning safe and within reach.

Realization dawned. He could have flown away. He could have taken that broom and come back at any time. He could have gotten help, but instead he stayed to protect _dragons_.

“Pansy…”

Dragons, though a protected species, probably need the least protection of any near extinct animal.

“ _Pans_ -“

And he decided to stay, wandless and vulnerable and almost close to _death_ -

“Pansy! Not to complain, but…you’re hugging me a little too tightly,” he gasped.

“I’m not hugging you,” she growled. “This is strangling, you absolute twit.”

She dropped from his arms like a stone and hit him roughly. Charlie winced. She quickly trampled the fast rising feelings of sympathy for his weakened state.

“You could have _died_! And _I_ could have died saving you. Think of that! Thought you’d play the hero? Thought you’d fight bare handedly the Dementors? You wanted to protect the precious fire-breathing monsters that are so VERY vulnerable; what with their sharp claws, fiery breath and bad attitude? Wanted to be the goddamn hero!?”

Pansy spent most of her time in states of irate fury or gently boiling annoyance. This was different. She was incandescent, almost inhuman, with rage.

“What did you think you were doing? What were you _honestly_ trying to do?”

Then she understood.

It may have been the strange, controlled blankness that came over his face. Or the realization that Charlie was not a complete moron… The broom was so close to hand. So close. He could have left at any time. He just chose not to.

Charlie loved dragons. He would always _choose_ dragons, always, always. Pansy tried desperately to reassure herself with this. His dracomania had finally driven him mad with heroism.

The guilty shadow in his eye said otherwise.

He chose not to because he didn’t want to come back.

 

* * *

 

 

Like a sharp intake of breath, Pansy stumbled back. She could not comprehend this new, dark element with how she saw Charlie. He was happy, outgoing, healthy. He laughed like a train and had an endless family who loved him enough to write libraries of letters. He was sensible, simple and sure. He sung loud and tunefully, and could identify a dragon from it’s mere silhouette in the sky. When he told rude jokes a bashful blush would steal shamefully up his neck. He was handsome but didn’t realize it. Proud and naive, but also funny. It was the naivety that came from being sheltered and happy, of not thinking dark thoughts and enacting dark deeds. His kindness was never surprising because it was always there. Everyone liked him. He always expected the best in people and because of that you became the best. And despite his dragon scars, vast shoulders and aggressive hair, there was a gentleness to him. A gentleman beneath the unpolished exterior.

He wasn’t a consumptive, drama queen whose guilt led him to waste away in a mansion.

He was Charlie.

And Charlie had wanted, in that moment, to die.

 

The truth resounded between them, unspoken.

He looked at her, guilt-ridden. Unsure of what to say he let the silence draw on. The metamorphosis of emotions was subtle across her face. Yet he was so used to studying it in those long stretches in the library that those foreign shapes of controlled emotion and forgetful sentiment were almost familiar to him. Shock struck her face with rigid realization, before morphing swiftly to sadness, and worse- understanding. Only half-fluent in her, he read pity and disgust when all she felt was an echo of what had sped through him.

“You didn’t leave because you didn’t want to…” She couldn’t get the last words out, just as he couldn’t find the words to respond. All he wanted was for this moment to end.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” she said after some time, with great force. “I should, but I won’t. I know how it feels to… want to stop. And it seems worse having people know that you can’t handle it. But I want you to promise me,” she sort out his hand and grasped it tight, her nails punctuating her point. “ _Promise me_. You won’t do this again. And if you do… feel this way, you’ll come to me. And we’ll talk. Or only one of us will talk. I could tell you all of the awful things that run through my head a hundred times a day –far darker and more twisted than I would admit to anyone else- or I can be quiet, and listen. But, please, please, Charlie, don’t put yourself in this situation. I couldn’t bare it.”

He could hardly dare look her in the eye. This awfulness inside him, suddenly made aware to another, was terrible. He felt as if his skin had been peeled back, leaving him twisted and bare; an utter monstrosity of exposed organs and weak, desperate thoughts. All his horror was reflected in the black mirror of her gaze.

Once again, the Slytherin girl stepped close to the Gryffindor boy. Her mind quick and cunning. She was a true Slytherin- a girl of ambitions and wants and manipulation. What was hers was going to stay that way no matter what.

“Please,” she said, letting the sadness she felt creep into her voice. “I can’t lose another friend. I just can’t, Charlie.” She saw it work. The cogs fell into place on his face. He was in the palm of her hand, and she would manipulated him well again- and if not well, at least not self-destructive. If she could make him safe now, perhaps later she could work on the happiness.

“Let me be selfish in this,” she continued, and the desperate fear made her bark laughter. That strange mania you get when truly on the brink. “I know I’m an over-privileged house elf brat, and a Slytherin bitch-“

“And terribly demanding,” Charlie tried to joke, voice raw.

“And _rightfully_ demanding, but let me have my friend back. I’ve missed you. And damaging yourself would really get in the way of my revenge for the past few weeks of cold shoulder.”

He shrank back, shoulders juxtaposed to the horizon. A noise came from his throat that was half-laugh, half-sob. What do you say to that? What do you say when someone holds up the dark reflection of yourself?

“Pansy,” he uttered her name like a plea. “I d-don’t want to die.” It was easy to say when she was looking at him with such concern, with such _will_. If anyone could do the impossible just by willing it true, Pansy Parkinson could. “Really, I don’t. That’s not to say I’m happy all the time. Far from it.” His throat moved with force, straining out the words. “The Dementors - they make you remember the worst times. The very worst. The times when those you love die and the only way out of the misery is to join them.”

His profile was obscured in the night. Pansy was unsure of the words that would fix this. Words that would raise the dead and rewrite time and stop anything bad happening ever again. Magic was meant to make the impossible possible, but in her experience it was limited to the mundane. If you can’t fix the big problems what was even the point of being a witch? They were no better off than Muggles when it came to death and heartache.

“So no, I don’t want to die. I just want to see my little brother. I want him to tell me a joke, set fire to my hair again, and be alive to terrorize the world like he was meant to. Fred was a much better son and brother than I’ll ever be. He made people laugh, He distracted them from… everything. He _stayed_. He built a business that made our parents proud. He stuck around to be a brother. He didn’t run off to hide in the mountains where social interaction was easier because dragons aren’t the complex monstrosities that people are. I don’t want to die, I just want Fred to be alive more than I want to be alive.”

Pansy swallowed. The silence a weak offering.

“This may be an unpopular opinion given present company, but I’m happy you’re here.” She didn’t mention that she thought Fred Weasley was a psychopath. She lacked tact, but she wasn’t _stupid_. “And… I know how you feel. If it helps. It probably doesn’t. But there are people I miss who would be contributing much more to the world than I am.”

She stopped there. Matching misery for misery was a dangerous game. It could show that she empathized, and that the terrible emotion was not one felt in isolation. Such things brought people together- sometimes. But she did not want to detract from his pain. By attempting to match his hurt it may seem that she was trying to belittle it and justify her right to be upset and traumatized.

Charlie was not a boy who thought like that. He reached for her hand, and drew her a few steps closer. “Who?”

“I have a dead brother, too. But he was a nasty piece of work, who I refuse to miss… My Father, Edgar, he died when I was young.” In a time where the death of a parent was not commonplace, at an age where the mere words were too large and horrifying to utter. “At his funeral he was described as being pathologically sensible and even-headed. Righteous and honorable too, if you can believe it. Qualities much more needed in the world than having the personality of an angry rhino.”

They shared a sad smile. “I see those qualities in you.”

 _You couldn’t possibly_.

“You’re a bad liar, Weasley. He was a good man, terribly stern though… For kindness and company, I wish I had Daphne back. She was the sweetest girl in the common room- no Slytherin jokes about it all being relative, I mean it. She sang like a bird, studied like a demon, and looked like a princess. Naturally, I absolutely detested her. But despite that she was my best friend… Mostly though, I wish I had Pell back. I wish that more than anything.”

“Who’s he?” Charlie asked, his voice low. Pansy had never said so much about her life. Part of him was afraid he’d spook her away.

“My other brother. My favorite- I know you’re not supposed to have favorite siblings, but if you were related to a monster and Pellinore, he’d be your favorite too. He’s not dead… just…. incarcerated.”

She said this slowly, with meaning, waiting for him to freak out and curse her. “He’s very kind. And witty. He deals with our mother much better than I do- hence why she’s organized for them to have a private Christmas without me. Sometimes I fantasize breaking him out. Or worse, committing some heinous crime so we could be cell buddies- which probably means I’m delusional. Once during a particularly bad period at home, it got so bad that I almost fired myself up to rob Gringotts just to get chucked in. You wouldn’t believe the number of fancy quills I’ve nicked from the place in the deluded hope they’d catch me and chuck me in jail.”

Below, at the foot of the mountain staring down the twin figures of their Patroni, the Dementors lurked in the forest. The bare skeletal hands of the trees gestured up to her, a malevolent calling. The tug on her heart- was it them or the memories?

Before Charlie could respond, there was a shout from below.

Bangs, yells and blasts of colour echoed up toward them. An army of ghostly shadows sprang from the night, courting Dementors that slipped away like quicksilver. Pale shapes galloped across their mountain, intruding on their sorrow; a boar, a swallow, a beaver, a seal, and a stag.

Behind the new Patroni, five figures appeared each shouting instruction and wielding spells with clinical skill. They wore dark robes, smart but practical, and ran with the cool efficiency of those trained for dangerous situations. One of them ruined the image by falling flat on his face. Pansy was too conflicted to laugh.

“Oh look, a perfectly timed distraction,” she muttered sardonically, and Charlie almost smiled.

“And thank Merlin for it,” Charlie replied, with a wonderful realization that he could flee this conversation and avoid her and these horrid events for as long as possible. She promised she wouldn’t tell. He could forget his weakness, and continue.

But he didn’t. He didn’t want to forget what she had told him and a strange tension had released from his chest from talking about Fred. She looked at him with patience, wanting more of him and willing to wait. He wanted to reassure her, and himself.

“I would steal a Hippogriff’s worth of quills to see Fred for merely a moment. But I won’t do something like this again. I promise. It’s selfish, and I’ve been selfish enough already. The Dementor was too much. All the bad thoughts, infinite and unconquerable. For a little while, Pansy, it seemed like drowning was the only option.”

She smiled. She was almost convinced. The main thing was that he looked sincere- so perhaps he did believe it. Perhaps.

“Good. Because if you force me to endanger my life again, Charles Idiot Von Weasley, I will get D’Artagnan the Dragon to pee on everything you love.”

“You have such a way with words… especially threatening ones.”

“Years of practice.” She took his hand. “Now let’s watch the wizard cops do what they do best- turn up late, steal the glory, and fall flat on their face.”

The Auror in question was being helped up by a tall wizard with dark hair who had the unmistakably demeanor of someone in charge. For a moment, Pansy admired the clean line of the wizard’s jaw and the lithe way he moved (definitely a Quidditch player)… before swiftly realizing whom it was she was admiring.

The face turned towards them, outlined by the same round glasses that she had spent seven years of her life tolerating.

“Can’t a man have a mental break down in peace,” Charlie cursed, and not for the first time that night she was reminded of Draco.

Harry Potter, cruelly, waved at them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you for everyone's comments - they're so thoughtful and it's amazing to hear which bit of the story/characterization you engage with :) I love writing this but hearing what you think is an inexpressible pleasure! (Okay, end of this soppy ridiculousness). 
> 
> Also, if anyone was wondering what my headcannon Charlie Weasley looks like... https://38.media.tumblr.com/10def7518640f881b0a536fbcad3384d/tumblr_nfv1z3Acyw1tl1w72o1_250.gif

“Is that Harry _Freaking_ Potter?”

“Yep,” said Charlie through gritted teeth.

“Coming this way?”

“Uhuh.”

“You seem slightly…” _Tense_ seemed to be an inappropriate word. Especially considering the last emotionally traumatizing, life-threatening, arguably quite stressful forty-five minutes.

“Yep,” replied Charlie filling in the blanks Pansy had left dangling awkwardly.

“So when you said Potter wasn’t your favorite person, you really meant that?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

Charlie frowned at her, temporarily ignoring the tall approaching (unmistakably heroic) figure. “That wasn’t a sarcastic or surprised ‘wow.’ Why do you actually sound impressed?”

“It’s not latent Slytherin hate I promise you- though I’m not exactly looking forward to coming face to face with Detective Inspector Potter- or whatever they call him now. You know, awkward school rivalry. I used to date his second favorite nemesis, spread rumors about Hermione collecting cat hair, generally scoff at Ron (sorry), and may be once vocalized an opinion to hand him over to the Dark Lord. So… no, I don’t have a problem with him _per se_. My wow of appreciation is for your new-founded dark, twisty, complex depths, Weasley.”

Charlie let these words settle over him. Even after a few mental repetitions they did not completely make sense.

“…You are the most unusual woman I’ve ever met. And when I say unusual I mean deeply, deeply disturbed.”

She smiled. Despite the seriousness of their expressions, there was a playfulness in the air. The bravado that Charlie was putting on, with his aggressive stance and deepening brow, was more comedic than serious. She had no doubt his dislike for Potter was real, but what was happening now was a distraction. It was as if they were taking part in some kind of choreographed comedy routine to divert from what had happened and what they had found out about each other. Pansy thought it was strangely lovely. A bizarre, reassuring yet horrifying dance. It wasn’t like worrying whether someone would spill your secrets or swap them like sweets. Charlie would never do that. This was an assuring hand-squeeze between them. No one will know. Your secret is my secret. So, er, let’s never talk about it again, okay?

“Well, you hate the Boy Wonder and have a dragon fetish.”

“Point taken.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Boy Who Didn’t Know How To Take a Break From This World Saving Malarkey strode up towards them with an aggravatingly professional set to his jaw. His practical, dark navy Auror gear and black hair (still as untamable as it ever was) were almost invisible in the darkness. All they could see was the clear, pale cut of his face and those two startling green eyes. The old, infamous scar nestled on his hairline. If it wasn’t for these features, Pansy was not sure she would have recognized the man before them.

Harry had lost that slightly haunted look that had troubled his schoolboy frame. Saving the world in secret and studying for Care of Magical Creatures obviously took it out of him at school. He seemed nonchalant as he quietly discussed feedback and plans with the rest of the Aurors who followed him like rapt dogs. Some of them were older than Harry, but were hanging to his every word while offering quiet suggestions. It was just another day at the office for him. Pansy almost wanted to scream. Whose life could be like this _all the time?_

“Charlie!” Harry hollered, extricating himself from the gaggle of Aurors. Pansy swiftly stepped slightly behind Charlie. Her tall, dark and troubled frame hoping the shadows would hide her.

“Harry. Took you long enough,” Charlie scowled… then smiled twistedly.

Harry grinned awkwardly thinking it was a joke and held out his hand for Charlie to shake. Too polite for his own good, he took it and attempted a smile so painful it looked like his facial features were rebelling against each other. _Hah_ , thought Pansy, so _criminally well-mannered. He must be kicking himself._

“Yeah, sorry about the delay. Well done for holding them off. We were caught on the south border by the Ridgeback pens, about thirty Dementors flanked in from there.”

“Are the Ridgebacks okay? Were Wynne and the others there?”

“Yeah, all fine. Dragons hardly realized they were under attack at all. Wynne got a message to us pretty quick. A trespass without the defenses going off made her freak out a bit. Or so my rather rattled deputy informed me after he had to deal with her face yelling at him from the Floo network. Luckily –and somewhat surprisingly- most of the Dementors on that side got stuck in those weird orange, knitted traps you have lying around everywhere.”

Luna’s traps actually work? Who would have guessed?

“Do you mind if my apprentice-“ Pansy wasn’t sure but it looked like a muscle in Harry’s jaw twinged. “Herbert Hippstrotter asked you a few questions about tonight and the security in this place? I better go check on Wynne and the others before heading back… God, this is going to be a hell of a thing to report.” Harry the Hero gave a melancholic sigh as if the only thing the wizarding world was truly in danger of was too much paper work. Pansy bit back snipes relating to the terrors of paper cuts and how truly awful it was to take responsibility for your actions as opposed to rampaging in willy-nilly

… A little voice in the back of her head noted that this was rather Draco-esque thinking (Merlin forbid), and that perhaps she should concentrate more on pretending to be invisible. Not that Harry seemed to have acknowledged her presence. Yet. But the inevitable shit storm was coming, she could feel it. Either way, Harry was bizarrely chatty as he subconsciously tried to fill the silence that Charlie was making.

“…Rounding up the remaining Dementors is not exactly my favourite job in the world, and I have no idea how they managed to find themselves in the middle of a Dragon Sanctuary in Romania. Hah, mysteries are so much easier to solve when Hermione is there peering over your shoulder! Right, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Herbert. He’s very… enthusiastic, just to warn you. See you for Christmas at Mrs Weasley’s, Charlie.”

And with that the Boy Who Lived left.

More importantly, he left without giving Pansy a second glance.

Her elation was quickly ebbed by the intended, or unintended, snub.

“Doesn’t he know who I am?” exclaimed Pansy, just as Charlie gave a PG-13 curse toward the pesky Potter boy.

“ _Who_ are you?” piped up Herbert the obviously clumsy. He was short, weedy, and there was a definite greenness to him. Even without Harry’s warning, Pansy could tell this was a boy who was pathologically enthused. Her eyes narrowed.

“Pansy Patricia Parkinson.”

Herbert dutifully wrote this down… and froze.

“Parkinson. As in the law firm? As in related to Pellinore Parkinson, currently incarcerated for illegal activities during the second wizarding war? And the eldest Parkinson sibling, Persues, dead and presumed an early follower of He Who Must Never Be Named- ahem, I mean Voldemort- _Tom_ , Thomas Riddle. _The_ Pansy Parkinson who wanted to give up Harry Potter in the war?”

“The Pansy Parkinson who is cleared and innocent of any wrong doings?” said Charlie, a pleasant menace in his voice.

The perverse jolt of pride (amongst the conflicted feelings of outrage at the list of her family’s sins) at being addressed as “The” was quadrupled at Charlie’s words. Pansy was quite capable of standing up for herself, yet there was a lovely comfort to having some one do it for her. It almost felt like a little ‘I’m sorry’ from him. But that was nonsense. Slytherins fought their own battles, Gryffindors fought everyone else’s.

Hippstrotter continued scribbling in his notebook, oblivious to Charlie’s friendly threat. “Quite a coinkydink that you are here now, Ms Parkinson, right in the middle of a mysterious Dementor attack. Looking to smuggle out some dragons perhaps? Assembling a dark and vengeful army?”

“Writing my dissertation on _draconis terroris_ and related practices, maybe?” She replied wide-eyed and mimicking his mocking tone.

“I’m just doing my job, Miss. I need to ask the questions.”

“And I answered them,” she responded coldly.

Charlie coughed politely, juxtaposing himself between them. “Harry said you had security questions. I’m in a better position to answer them than Pansy, who being a student has low level clearance and is supervised almost constantly after that unfortunate episode with the old apprentice Ryan.”

“… No one has ever mentioned a Ryan before,” whispered Pansy in an undertone. “In fact, you lot constantly reassure me that students haven’t been harmed more than a broken arm and a couple of burns.”

“Sometime we… massage the truth. Also, Ryan is fine. Loves his new career in Herbology… And there’s a reason people are born with two kidneys.”

She let these words settle in her mind.

“I hate you sometimes.”

“I know,” Charlie replied with a small grin.

“Ahem,” interrupted Hippstotter, looking perceptibly agitated. His quill was aquiver with rage and unanswered questions. “Fine, Mr Weasley. Do you have any clue how the Dementors could have got past your defenses? From what I hear this place is meant to be Gringotts-level secure.”

Charlie, for reasons Pansy could not fathom, rolled his eyes. “Most of our defenses are against muggle and wizard trespasses. Magical beasts are usually too smart to bother dragons.”

The young whippersnapper who had fallen over in his overenthusiastic attempt to defeat the Dementors, redoubled his rabid scribbling.

“And what happens if this trespass occurs?”

“Depends where and who it is. Muggles just get a disillusionment spell. If any wizards without a Black Tooth necklace get through- especially if they attempt to approach the Longhorn pens or anywhere marked with warnings- then an ancient skeleton of a colossal dragon rises from the earth and proceeds to devour them.”

“Badass,” whispered Pansy.

“So you’d say this place is secure?”

“Very.”

“Let me have a word with my colleague. I may need to question you both again later.” And by both, he meant Pansy. The look he gave was an attempt to be professionally threatening, and looked vaguely like Potter’s self-righteous glare. Upon leaving, he unsubtly indicated to his fellow Aurors that Pansy needed watching. Great.

Usually Pansy would feel wrathful about such treatment. But right now, she only felt a mild agitation. Admittedly, the Aurors probably had a right to question why on earth she was here (and it’s not like the idea of having a pet dragon had not crossed her mind a couple hundred times). None of the suspicion felt like it mattered right then. As long as her friends knew her innocent, she supposed it was okay.

“…Care to share the joke?” asked Charlie, managing to keep his bewilderment at her inappropriate laughter only partly hidden.

“I just had a rather mature, grown up moment, if you must know. Hilarious, right?”

“Ah, so you have truly gone mad. Nice to know.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Shame about your Patronus,” Pansy said in a solemn tone as the Aurors escorted them back to the main base.

“Hmm? What? I thought my Patronus was pretty cool.”

“… Well, yeah. If you like living in dirty holes, having monochrome hair and representing the house of the pleasant but dull.”

“What? My Patronus was the wolf. You know, strong, protective… wolf-y.”

“I think you’ll find that’s me: elegant, nocturnal, pack-orientated. You must be the badger. You’re both so… bow-legged. And badgers are related to weasels.”

“…You do zoology and think that weasels and badgers are closely related?”

“Shut up. They’re both fluffy woodland creatures. Like you.”

“You’re the secretly cuddly one.”

Pansy gasped. “I hugged you in a touching moment of joy and solidarity. I was getting over my issues regarding imminent death- and you use this against me? You _cried_! You literally had tears frozen on your face like some soppy heroine from Witch Weekly!”

“My eyes were watering! It was windy.”

“Yeah- they were _watering like a badger_!”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense!”

“I know,” replied Pansy smugly. “I don’t need to make sense. I’m a big, goddamned hero. I got cool scars, a dark past and anger management problems. Potter and I will probably be best buds now. We’ll hit the town and score chicks with our super cool and definitely non-badgery Patroni.”

Charlie looked at her agog. She was wonderfully, fantastically mad. A few moments ago he had been considering death by Dementor as quick and easy way out… and now she was provoking him with his distaste for the boy wonder and badger spirit animal. Surprisingly, it was working.

“How about we test this theory out now, eh Miss Parkinson? Or should I say… Miss Future Hufflepuff Emblem?”

They reached for their wands just as two Aurors rugby tackled Pansy to the ground.

The Aurors were quite surprised when Charlie physically threw them off the girl they had been 95% sure was completely evil and 67% sure was attacking him.

“If you do that again,” muttered Pansy through gritted teeth as she shrugged snow off her bruised, aching shoulders. “I’ll make your insides you outsides, and your outsides… oh, I’m too tired to this. Insert your own blood-curdling threat here.”

“Yes,” said Charlie, his voice toneless. “You may want to keep in mind that her family is entirely made up of lawyers. Just remember that before you decide to do your job with that level of enthusiasm again. Also, it’s been a long day and I will break your jaw.”

 

* * *

 

 

 Back at the Fort, the uneasiness Pansy had tried to evade through tiredness, annoyance and strange, circulating thoughts of Charlie, was rife through everyone else. Aurors had taken over Wynne’s office- much to her chagrin- while the wranglers were closeted up in the library. Any other group would be shaky and adrenaline-fuelled, quaking like rabbits in a den. But these were dragon fanatics. Half of them sat stoic, suppressing the urge to run out and check the fences whenever a rogue roar echoed through the hills. The others paced, fuming with rage and the need to help. This was their land. Their responsibility. Every time an Auror returned one of them from the interviews, they pounced on the new comer with questions and pleas to check the pens. The dragons, too, knew something was wrong. Their calls agitated the mountains more than was usual.

The solidity of feeling made that night’s events more of a shocking reality for Pansy. They had a joke back in the Slytherin common room- Hogwarts; it’s just one more bit of dangerous, weird shit after another. Not the most eloquent of phrases, but it hit the nail on the head. Just when you’re fretting over Transfiguration homework, oh look- there’s a troll in the dungeon! Love life getting you down and pesky NEWTs to concentrate on? Fear not, perspective is on it’s way with the rise of an insane, murderous dictator! Oh look, your teachers are werewolves/torturers/double-agents/have a weird snake face on the back of their head, but don’t worry if that doesn’t kill you then the terrifying spider colony you discover in the Forbidden Forest during detention probably will.

And that was just Hog- “the safest place to be” –warts. And here they were again, in the supposed Golden Age of Wizardry. A time when equality bills were being pushed through and International Wizardry was pulling together to create a safer world for all… and yet, there was still danger. This was the hangover from the war that seemed to never end. Pansy had thought living with bitterness and memory was bad enough, _but there were things out there that still wanted to kill you_. And they made as little sense to her now as it did when she was thirteen and those dark, soulless beasts were sent to guard their school.

“Perhaps the Muggles have it right,” she said to Charlie as they hid in the corner by one of the bookcases. Instinctively they had entered the room quietly, avoiding the discussions going on around the table. Their little pocket of peace was a sacred thing. The moment they had to explain the evening it would be broken. Things would have to be fixed. Seriousness would have to descend. For now the dissociated state they had was a brief respite. “The no magic thing. A little less sparkle, a little more safety. Imagine, I could cook with a non-fatal object and work a snazzy, but safe office job. I could live in utter ignorance of what goes bump in the night. It might be nice.”

Charlie, bless him, cocked his head on one side and humoured her with a look of deep contemplation.

“Nah, couldn’t do it.”

“Racist.”

He rolled his eyes in a way that he must have adopted from her. “Haha. You’re forgetting the important stuff.”

“Really? Perhaps I’m just less materialistic than you. Or whatever the equivalent of materialism with magic is. Power hungry?”

“Well, there’s Quidditch. Dragons –most importantly. Making things levitate is pretty cool.”

Pansy mouthed the word “Child” at him.

“And I’m not convinced you could do without magic. I think you find the constant ability to curse others comforting.”

“I do like Fire balls, you’re right.”

“And what about Hogwarts? The Giant squid, the Main Hall’s ceiling, Astronomy Wednesdays? I met some of the best people I have ever come across there. It was the place I raced Icarus Couch for a snitch so intently that it ended with us skidding twenty-yards on our faces and in the hospital ward for two weeks. Without Hogwarts, I wouldn’t have been able to be here today. My Magical Creatures Professor used to sign Dracozoology books out of the Forbidden section for me… which is how I learned the Swedish Short Snout has circular lungs, just like a bird, and they’re covered in what is basically petroleum. Also, you may already know this, in the sixteenth century people would send their enemies dragon eggs in the guise of luxury food items, so when cooked a baby dragon would burst out and attack them...” A nostalgic mist seemed to descend over Charlie. Pansy felt a bittersweet realisation that she had momentarily distracted him from tonight. “Things happen at Hogwarts that don’t happen anywhere else. Every child who goes there doesn’t just come out with a magical education, they come out with a different, personal relationship with the place. No one who goes there will learn every single one of Hogwarts’ secrets, but we all come out with a couple. Muggles would kill for that… In fact, Muggles _have_ killed for that.”

Pansy was very still. She didn’t want to break this fragile thing they had. She didn’t want to break his memories of Hogwarts, so she said simply. “Not everyone who goes there had that kind of experience.”

A little fracture seemed to travel across Charlie’s face. It didn’t break. It just looked like a brief moment of understanding.

“Pansy?’ They had been spotted.

Mona rushed over and –curiously- embraced Pansy before Charlie. “Thank Merlin, you’re alright. I had hoped that out of everyone you would be selfish and stay safely out of the way. You idiot. Seems the hero-gene everyone has here is infectious.”

Mona then punched Pansy on the arm, which Pansy did her best to avoid revealing how much it actually hurt.

“And you,” Mona’s glee turned to instant anger as she swiveled to face Charlie. She hit him much, much harder, “are a plonker to go anywhere without your wand. No one’s mentioned this to Wynne because you would be out on your ass, but I swear to Merlin’s frilly dress robes if you do something like that again I will feed you to the Ridgebacks myself.”

“Chill,” Pansy interrupted, feeling Charlie had had an excessively rough night as it was. “I’ve already threatened him thoroughly enough for one lifetime. Perhaps two. How is everyone else?”

Luna transpired out of nowhere and blinked sleepily as Pansy enveloped her in a bruising hug.

“Luna! You mad, little, fantastic, befuddled genius! They told us about your traps. Apparently we would have been overrun without them.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” she replied sleepily. “It’s a shame those Dementors completely ruined them though… I bet one more day and we would have caught something of actual interest. Other than the mountain goats… What happened to you two?”

“Oh, we just fought off a legion of Dementors. No biggie. Mr Big-shot over there has a Patronus of a badger. (Dead embarrassing). I saved the day, yada yada. Now I think I deserve a 36 hour nap, a large drink and possibly a medal. Not necessarily in that order.”

Mona raised her eyebrows and snorted in a way that Pansy chose to interpret as agreement.

“No casualties but our egos. After the encounter most of us are feeling a little… delicate. Dementors aren’t really an enemy we’d ever thought to preparing for. Poachers, madmen and dragons in heat, yes, but soulless demons with no pulse, not so much. We’ve done a quick check and all the penned guys are about. Tomorrow we’ll head out into the field and see if we can count up everyone. Not that I can really imagine a Dementor making off with a fully grown dragon… but there’s a lot I can’t explain today. Fancy heading out with us tomorrow?”

“Definitely,” answered Pansy and Charlie in unison.

At that point Wynne noticed their existence and beckoned them over. She was crouched over one of the tables with a map of the land spread before her. From the animated dragons and floating model brooms levitating above the page, it seemed that she had been planning the routes everyone would take tomorrow. The lines of concentration on her face crisscrossed with scars and wrinkles. There was something striking about the old bird, though Pansy’s Mother would have shuddered to look upon someone so careworn and severe.

“So, Damsel and Goldilocks, what are your theories about tonight’s misadventures? I’ve heard everything from rogue Dementors wanting to enter the black market to them merely wanting to possess a new, flamey pet. Your thoughts can’t be quite as inane as some of the gibberish I’ve heard tonight. So do try to impress me.”

Pansy sighed and collapsed into the closest comfy chair.

“I don’t really do the Scooby thing. From my experience- weird shit happens. Best not to think too much about it, because something weirder, shittier and more confusing is probably around the corner.”

“Helpful,” Wynne replied coldly.

“It’s been a long day,” Charlie said quietly. “Tomorrow I’m sure we’ll be more up to thinking this thing through. What did Potter say?”

“Let me guess- nothing?” chimed Pansy. “That’s his style. My childhood would have made a lot more sense if he hadn’t been quite so, yunno, secretive.”

“From the way I remember it, whenever that boy did tell the truth no one believed him.” Wynne gave Pansy a cold-eyed stare. “Doesn’t surprise me that he is averse to giving everyone all the details. Especially considering how _helpful_ everyone was with the ‘Scooby thing,’ whatever that means. However, the Aurors are very tight-lipped about their thoughts on the matter. So I need your thoughts. If we’re going to stop this from happening again, we need to know why and where from.”

“And who,” said Charlie, rubbing his eyes. “I can’t imagine tonight was completely the machinations of Dementors. Some one will be directing them, offering them power.”

A silence spread through the room. The man who died twice come to live again? They all knew two men who had avoided death by each other’s hand. There was always that lingering question whether either of them could truly die.

“How many?” asked Pansy all of a sudden, sitting up in her chair.

“Sixty, maybe?” Toothpick spoke from the corner. “I heard a couple of the Aurors talking- not exactly the best spies in the world. They think in that ball-park.”

“Dementors are, perversely, one of the most democratic creatures that exist. There is nothing like a rebel band, at least not documented. I think this was a scout party.”

“Sixty is a scout part?” Caesar asked. “The Ministry have regulated the majority of Dementors, I can’t imagine there are many pockets of them left.”

“Says a zoologist purely interest in dragons,” replied Pansy, frowning in concentration. “Even when Azkaban housed them, that was never the full population. A few groups survived in the Muggle world. It was a sore and much ignored point in Ministry-Dementor relations. They were meant to get free rein of our prisoners and the occasional soul in exchange for leaving everyone else alone. But allowing some groups to roam free meant they could breed and survive if relations ever went sour, as they have. The Ministry let this happen as they didn’t want to lose their already tenuous hold over them… and also, who cares if a couple of Muggles get depressed and lose a soul?”

“Hey, Muggle-born present.” Toothpick scowled.

“I know, ‘pick. It’s shitty and I don’t agree with it, however that was the thinking back then. Edgar, my father, was on the case when they were doing the annual legal review of Azkaban. ‘Muggles- who cares?’ was quite literally what some of the Wizengammot concluded. Dementors are terrifying. Powerful wizards were scared. Best they had this pretend power over them in exchange for a few lives they were not responsible for.”

“It’s disgusting,” growled Charlie. “We should be responsible for them.”

Pansy decided to not enter into the whole ethical debate. How on earth could they properly regulate Dementors anyway? It was like regulating mercury or rounding up quicksand.

“The point is, I think they’ll be back. And there will be more. Much more of them.”

“You going to pack a suitcase, Damsel?” Said Marcus, leaning against Wynne’s desk, his chin tilted in challenge.

“Yep,” she replied with fire in her eyes. “One for you. Can’t have anyone fragile getting in my way while I do something useful, can I?”


	16. Chapter 16

Weeks past, and there was nothing.

No attacks, no Dementors, no awkward bonding moments over how dark and twisty they were deep down. Life simply continued.

Admittedly, it continued at a somewhat heavier pace than beforehand. There were new patrols around the mountains. Every movement and exodus of the dragons was documented. Time spent not researching or mucking out was filled with knitting Luna’s mad contraptions and setting them up all around the mountain range. And each day the snow fell slightly thicker.

Daily, Pansy tramped into the cabin, frozen and happy. The layers she stole from others- Caesar’s comically pink earmuffs, Toothpick’s socks, Charlie’s sapphire blue Weasely jumper, all came back sodden with sweat and melted ice, else were partially frozen into stiff boards. It was perverse. The physical exertion was exhausting, but satisfying. The preparations they established against attack made her feel safe and capable, not afraid. It was unlike school where the guerrilla warfare was enacted to exclude them. This time she was included and useful instead of feeling like some poisoned sacrificial lamb.

Her thoughts, which should have been spinning out of control worrying about Charlie, even they were in check. By some crazy, random, happenstance (and her forging timetables and annoying anyone silly enough to choose her as a scouting partner), she and Charlie were often paired together on patrols. Here she could keep a careful eye on him, while making sure she was too brash and too loud to allow him a moment to ruminate. The mountains were filled with the sounds of their teeth chattering against the cold and boisterous laughter bursting from their lungs. It was nice to have her friend back.

She had decided that the one thing that would sort Charlie out for good was to get himself a girl. After all, she couldn’t keep an eye on him all the time, and a little bit of wink wink, nudge nudge cheered everyone up. It would be his early and only Christmas present. Further, it would stop her thinking about how nice his shoulders were when really she should be concentrating on her dissertation and finding herself a rich, socially-acceptable husband.

Hence she re-doubled her efforts on Mona’s behalf.

“So, Pollyanna,” said the ever scowling Pansy to the ever smiling Mona who, as ever, puckered her forehead in ignorance of the reference. “The second half of my plan - which I have entitled ‘The Dragon’s Heart String Quartet’ (yes, it needs to be snappier) - is about to reach completion.”

“If this is about Charlie, please no. I am so over that bag of freckles,” she replied. Her wand hand flicked, cursing frozen layers of ice down the mountain to reveal a path that had been hidden in mere minutes of snowfall.

“No, no, no- let’s not be disheartened. He’s not the brightest poltergeist in the haunted mansion when it comes to romantic notions. And he’s been very… distracted lately. However I honestly think a lovely, way out of his league girl like you could really bring him out of his shell. He may even find another conversation topic than dragons.”

Mona’s face soften slightly, but her eyes became wary. Pansy only wielded compliments to get something, or if she was in a particularly soppy mood. However… perhaps it was because of their rarity or some peculiarity of Pansy’s, but her compliments were always terribly sincere. You knew that if she said something nice to you, without laughing or tricking you in some grander scheme, then it came absolutely from the heart. Or whatever black-hole-esque vacuum she had instead of one.

“Also, I need a distraction from the monotony of work and fearing another friendly visit from the tall, dark and creepy,” Pansy added, throwing a little too much force into her spell and creating a small avalanche down the hill.

“Oh,” came the slightly chilled reply. “Pans, I really am not interested in Weasely. His personality has become starkly apparent to me… and, I think he’s probably interested in someone else.”

Mona gave Pansy a meaningful stare, but the girl shrugged- possibly feigning ignorance, possibly not.

“Nonsense. I’ll get it sorted. All you have to do is look attractive, mention dragons a couple of times (which should be easy- look you and at your job description), and the magic of dancing under the stars will do the rest of it.”

“Damsel, I am quite certain of this. Stop whatever scheme you have. I’m not interested.”

Pansy hummed a little louder and distracted herself with potential plots. Mona and Charlie. Charlie and Mona. Perfect, surely? They were both reasonably good-looking, liked dragons, and Pansy had not once fantasized about killing either of them brutally with a spade. If that wasn’t a match made in heaven, then what was?

Oh, probably a brooding, blond millionaire and a girl who found herself displaced in a Romanian dragon sanctuary. Two people with so much shared history they couldn’t help but hurt each other, yet have an affection kin to love. Shared history was important, she deduced. Their entwined childhood meant they were practically two heads of the same chimeric beast.

Something that had become starkly apparent to Pansy, despite the exchange of truths between her and Charlie, was the lack of understanding born of their different paths. It led to the tension, the secrets, the hatred. Yes, they were fine now, and as two people got on brilliantly. But the moment they scratched the surface of the other… It made Pansy afraid for some reason. She feared what Charlie thought of her because of her Slytherin background and traitorous friends. In the same manner, she found it hard to understand or forgive parts of him that… well, she had forgiven much worse of others.

Where was the root of their difference? The obvious answer would be the war. Loved ones battling loved ones. One side being right, and the other being so steeply heaped in wrong… And not by her own choosing. If everyone you loved chose the side of the dark, does that not really mean the decision has been made for you?

Perhaps it was even before that. Two different houses. Two very different lives. And deep down, Charlie and her were two very different people. Forgiveness did not seem to come easily between them, as it did she and Draco. With a horrible shiver, she played with the notion that with Malfoy she could probably forgive him anything. She already had forgiven him everything. The very worst sins. She was not sure she would afford Charlie the same understanding. He was stronger, more moral, and his family weren’t manipulative psychopaths. More than anything, she expected better of him. He was a boy that would achieve great things merely by being good and kind. Draco was slippery. Right and wrong were not clear to him. They were too entangled with ambition and pride and deep love and loyalty. She forgave Draco because she could conceive of herself playing a very similar role had she been dealt that hand.

Of course, being a Parkinson and not a fool, she would have done it considerably better. If she was going to go evil, she’d go the whole hog. It would have made Bat Shit Crazy Bellatrix seem like an annoyed kitten in comparison.

Following Draco’s most recent letter, Pansy could not quite stop these notions from sprouting. For weeks, she had barely spared him a thought, and yet that last owl… It’s words bordered on kind. It’s offer, sweet.

She shook her head against the snowdrifts. A couple of schemes to sort things out here, plus a teeny tiny dissertation to do, and she would leave things better than when she arrived. Then home to normality and away from these pesky, goodwill-inducing non-Slytherins. A slight ache formed in her chest as she watched Mona stride ahead. In the distance she saw Luna and Scamander setting up another of the orange traps, and yes, on the horizon a red-headed Weasely was flying in from patrols. Warmth and worry filled her chest at the sight of them all.

Surprisingly, this whole misadventure had been a nice break from her normal plot-filled, misshapen life. These wholesome, yet also broken, people had been wonderful. However once she was gone, and a mere ghost of an annoyance in their memories, she did not imagine they would keep in contact. It was a strange realization to have when her time here was not even half over. Pansy took it as a sign to harden herself slightly, but also to live and laugh while she could. _Enjoy their company and then forget them_ , she thought as Charlie landed smiling, and instinctively headed for her. _They’ll do the same for you_.

 

* * *

 

Pansy gave the scene before her an analytical scowl. The plates were mismatched and cracked, but they were the best she could get her hands on. Jars of orange fire glinted merrily where they were nestled amongst the holly and twisted twigs lain across the table’s centerpiece. It looked… rustic. Not exactly the elegant dinner party Pansy was hoping to throw, however it would have to do. The main thing was it was warm. The jars of fire let off a pleasant heat, and the bonfire to her back brimmed hot and ready for the food to be cooked on. The light glinted gaily from the gold place names written in Pansy’s best calligraphy, as smoke from the bonfire disappeared in great dancing swirls up and up into the dark, cold sky.

It was a perfect night. The bright moon cast a pale whiteness on the colossal mountains. They almost looked too still and too beautiful for Pansy to believe they were real. To the south, a winged shape sailed through the sky- even from this distance she could guess it was the Ironbelly, roaming for lost sheep. A flutter of joy shivered through her stomach at the sight of it, much different to the intense, sickening fear she had experienced when she had first set eyes on the beast.

Jovial laughter announced the arrival of the wranglers. They were all there, clad in jumpers and hats and autumnal colours. They were so bright and warm in the winter cold that she could not help a smile slipping to her lips. Her eyes shifted to Charlie, then Luna and Mona, to see what they thought at the sight of the dinner table set up. For a very un-Pansy moment, she realized she was nervous.

“Took you long enough,” she welcomed them, eyes dancing when she saw the three she cared about most beaming. Everyone else looked vaguely surprised at the feast and the fire before them, but not those three. Mona rolled her eyes with a mocking smile- a motion she had learned from Pansy. Luna looked her usual dazed, content self. (Pansy was perfectly sure she would have that same, strange smile whether presented with a dead possum let alone a surprise dinner party).

Charlie’s scarlet hair and blue, blue eyes shone in the firelight. His lips held a smile. Yet this meant nothing. He smiled for everyone. His lips formed a natural lie to please the world, protecting it from himself. It was his eyes Pansy cared about, and there was that telltale crinkle at their corners that belied true pleasure.

“What’s all this then?” asked Wynne, her sardonic eyes slightly softer than they usually were. “A mysterious invitation to a mountaintop with no explanation… Mona was taking bets for you organizing a ritual human sacrifice.”

“Hey, with Damsel that’s always a possibility,” Mona replied, winking.

“It’s dinner,” Pansy said with a shrug. “We’ll all be off home for Christmas soon, and I thought it would be nice if we could have a last meal together. To say. Um. Yunno.”

There was an expectant silence that no one saved her from.

“That thing. That thing that people say. When other people interfere. In an annoying but inherently not negative way. That.”

“Is she having a break down?” muttered Caesar suspiciously.

“I suspect it’s wargles,” offered Luna helpfully. “Though she sounds perfectly sane to me.”

“It’s ok. No need to continue. We know what you mean. Can we eat now?” Wynne spoke up, obviously uncomfortable with wherever this was going.

“Shush, Ms. Warbeck, I think what Pansy’s trying and failing to say is really beautiful,” grinned Markus. “Let this embarrassment continue.”

Pansy glared at him and gave herself a little mental shake. Parkinsons were brilliant public speakers (or so they had decided). This was ridiculous. Her fingers fiddled with the edge of her green, wool dress.

“Shut up, you. It’s a good thing you have a great face because your personality is such a constant disappointment.” Markus laughed heartily. “Anyway. I just wanted to say thank you. For teaching me, and bearing with me, and not killing me even though I am well aware I am so annoying it often came to that point. Wynne and Professor, this whole dragon-thing has been much more brilliant than I could have ever expected. So thank you. I’ve learnt a lot… and you’ve accepted me even though I can be quite a hard person to accept.” Her eyes flickered to Charlie, and swiftly looked away. “But I especially want to thank… um. They’ve got me though a lot of tough difficult points, perhaps without realizing they were doing so-”

She took a deep breath, and handed out glasses of mulled wine for everyone to toast with.

“So everyone, I would like to raise a toast. A toast to…” Darkness flit over Pansy’s face. That glass of mulled wine she had earlier was obviously a mistake. _Back out of this now before you make a fool of yourself, Parkinson_.”… Markus’ face. Your beautiful, ethereal, Scandinavian face. It’s brightened many a day in the library with it’s glory. If only you’d shut up (and had a worthy trust-fund) you would be the perfect man. Sadly, this is not the case, and it remains a permanent regret to us all. To Markus’ face!”

“And his god-given body!” Someone (definitely Markus) added.

While everyone jostled for seats, Charlie came over to her. She smiled at his approach, lips instantly going to form a witty remark or insult… instead they failed her and just stuttered hello. She was so unused to doing something like this for people, and there was a very definite fear that they would find it silly or lacking. Charlie found kindness so easy. You just had to see it in his easy compliments and care. He did it with such subtleness and ease that she hardly noticed it at all. Like when he took on more shifts when Pansy had a deadline to work to, or would leave her books that she was so bad at searching for in the library.

A sharp reminder entered her brain- _Charlie is like that with everyone_. If ever conversation surrounding Luna edged toward too critical he would ensure a change of topic. He would never allow a harsh word towards Wynne no matter how tough she was being. His kindness was colossal because it was just so constant. Still Pansy felt a pang of anger towards him. If he had just let others help, or hinted in was in pain, or treated himself more kindly… then perhaps he would be happier.

Charlie paused for a second before speaking. There was a look in Pansy’s eye that was not easy to read. Her black hair flickered as it reflected the fire, looking like a river slipping down her back and shoulders. Her contrasts were always so striking; the harsh lines of her face to the blunt, roundness of her lip; the clear-cut green dress a exacting cast against her colouring. She looked uneasy, careful. He nodded his head down to her, wanting to comfort her in some way. His hand found the small of her back and he heard her cut off an intake of breath.

“Parkinson, you word smith. Truly, there was never such an elegant collection of sentences. That expensive, first-class education your parents paid for was definitely worth it.”

“For a horrifying second I thought you were going to say something terribly touching and sincere,” replied Pansy, relaxing under his gaze and touch. Joking with him was so easy. Too easy. “I was about to be overcome by a lack of cynicism. Thank Merlin, you went for the sarcasm line instead. My delicate feminine constitution wouldn’t have been able to bear the alternative.”

“I was being sincere,” he replied, eyes crinkling. “You put my thoughts into words. Especially that bit about Markus. Truly beautiful. Oft I gaze at his face in glorious wonder, wishing I could compose an small ode or three part saga describing it’s glory. Ah… those cheekbones.”

Pansy nodded wistfully. “That ass.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes in faux annoyance as she batted her lashes innocently at him (a look she pulled off about as well as a hippogriff sporting the latest fashions). He followed her to the table going to take the chair to her right.

“No, sorry Charlie, but you’re over there between Luna and Mona,” Pansy said briskly, avoiding his gaze. Mona noticed this and glared at her. “I’m between Scamander and He Of The Magnificent Bone Structure.”

Charlie did not frown per se. His lips may have formed something resembling a pout of confusion before swiftly transforming into a beam towards the two girls. He dragged himself two chairs down beyond Scamander’s hunched form and Luna’s bright head of hair, plonking himself next to Mona. Pansy took her own place and controlled the impulse to shoot a joke towards the slightly sullen red head or yell at him for not being better at pretending to have fun.

 

* * *

 

 

The cooking ended up being a group effort as soon as they all realized that giving Pansy free-rein over the hog roast was likely to end in tantrums, third degree burns and food poisoning. Toothpick fiddled with an old radio, eventually managing to tease out a warbling version of Cloak & Cauldron’s “Hex Appeal.”

The party was going well. The food was edible and the mulled wine flowed freely. Everyone was chatting jovially, teasing Caesar about his pink earmuffs and chuckling at Toothpick’s truer than life impressions. Rather flatteringly, Markus was set on flirting shamelessly with Pansy, and even Wynne afforded her an almost approving turn of the mouth.

 _This is a disaster_ , Pansy thought.

She had been keeping a careful eye on Charlie and Mona throughout the night. Yes, occasionally they had exchanged conversation, but often it was punctuated with Mona’s barely hidden yawns. Charlie too seemed distracted and kept glancing over at Pansy- a look she alternately returned with a surprised smile or exasperated glare.

“Thank Merlin, it’s not another Weird Sister song,” sighed Mona. “That band is so over played.”

Charlie was deep in discussion with Luna and Scamander at that point about the politics of dragon territory and the legal side of who was responsible for monitoring dragons when their habitats crossed country borders. Pansy had kept half an ear turned to this talk, intrigued by the legal side and of Charlie’s knowledge of the area. He even seemed to out-maneuver Scamander’s expertise on the subject.

“Charlie,” she said pointedly. “Don’t you have anything to add to that?”

“To what?” he perked up, tilting his smile towards her.

Pansy was simultaneously endeared by his puppy-like manner and repulsed at her own endearment. He’s a fully grown man for Merlin’s sake who wrestles dragons for a living. Stop finding him weirdly adorable.

“Mona was talking to you about modern music. You may be unfamiliar with the concept, being obsessed only with five ton, fire-breathing monstrosities but that’s no excuse for being unfamiliar with manners.”

Charlie rolled his eyes. “Rich coming from you, Parkinson. Sorry, Mona- I’m actually a bit of a fan of the Weird Sisters. You have to be in my household, or go mad.”

Mona gave a tight smile, and muttered not quite inaudibly, “…You would be wouldn’t you,” before returning her attention to Caesar.

Pansy glared at Mona, who knew her well enough to glare right back. So Pansy aimed her evil eye instead at Charlie, who in turn looked at her as if she were perfectly mad, and started chatting to Luna about Quidditch. It was a conversation she was delirious to join, but felt so angered at her friends refusal to be manipulated by starlight, music and a perfect seating plan that she sat their sizzling with annoyance.

 

* * *

 

 

“Miss Parkinson, are you quite alright?” murmured Scamander later in the evening when they had all abandoned the table in favour of places around the fire. Pansy had strolled off a little, needing a moment of quiet to look out into the impervious night. Scamander also looked slightly fraught, having noticed that the roguish young Weasely had usurped Luna’s attention.

“I’m not sure. Do you ever wish it was socially acceptable to use the Imperius Curse to ensure you friends make sensible romantic decisions?”

“No. Not even once.”

“Then we really don’t have much to talk about,” Pansy said, draining her glass and giving Scamander a joking wink. She braced herself. “So why don’t we talk about your new research… or the fact your madly in love with Luna Lovegood?”

Scamander stuttered with shock, but had the decency not to deny it. “I would rather discuss the sleep cycle of Snidgets, to be quite honest.”

She studied the Professor for a moment. He was not that much older (younger than Charlie, in fact), and had a pleasant, quizzical face topped with a bird’s nest mess of hair.

“It’s terribly inappropriate, you know. She’s your student.”

“I’m aware,” he sighed, looking mildly heartbroken. “And not only that, she’s out of my league too. For the best really. I don’t think I have the gall to keep up with so bright and brilliant and beautiful a woman. She’s got such a future ahead. It’s so rare to find someone who’s still so curious about the world. So ready to challenge the accepted. A true scientist, really.”

“And utterly bonkers.”

“Wonderfully so.”

Her eyes couldn’t help skimming to Charlie, who seemed alive in the firelight; all red, laughing and bright. He was going to burn her, she was sure of it.

Since that night, that horrible night, he seemed lighter. As if saying the terrible, dark words had lifted something from him. He seemed like he was safe and happy for the time being. She wanted to preserve this happiness for him like a flower pressed in a book. She thought by placing him into the safe hands of Mona who was sunny and wholesome (and had an appropriately dry sense of humor), she could keep him safe.

She had completely failed. Mona was off fooling around with Caesar. Apparently her seating plan had been a complete catastrophe on that front. If only she had got Mona to strike when the iron was hot… but affections fade. Love was impermanent. She of all people should realize this; even her own Mother’s affections came and went. All Pansy wanted was to afford them both a little happiness, and she could not.

“If you hurt Luna, it goes without saying…”

“You’ll hang, draw and quarter me? No need. The only one in this situation who’ll be afforded heart-ache is myself.”

The sweet, heavy wine slipped down her throat. Scamander, for a man over six-foot, looked strangely fragile and unsure in that moment. His bird-like physique moved to leave Pansy with her thoughts.

As he went, she whispered in an undertone, “She will, of course, not be your student come next year. She’ll be an equal. That’s something to think about…”

 

* * *

 

 

“You seem… edgy tonight,” came a deep voice behind her.

“I’m always edgy. I’ve got so many edges that I’m the envy of dodecahedrons everywhere,” Pansy replied, pleased and not pleased to see Charlie. She spun to face him, hair awry and brow pulled down. Cheekbones and jaw cut harsh shadows on her face.

“Edgy and tipsy. Quite the combination.” He placed his hand on the small of her back for the second time that evening, stabilizing her against the wind’s chill. Charlie felt like it was trying to stabilize a tempest. “Be honest- is everything alright? And feel free to be brutal. I’ve off-loaded enough on you to deserve a lifetime of rants and horrors.”

Her black eyes found his, focusing on him with that terrifying intensity. You couldn’t hide from that stare. It made him feel more real, which was gratifying and distressing all at once.

“I’ll tell you the truth,” Pansy said finally. “I’m a little sad. Only a little. But mostly I’m sorry. I let you down tonight… You may not have noticed, but I was trying to set you up with Mona.”

“Oh.”

“You didn’t realize did you?”

“Not exactly, though the whole night makes a lot more sense now. The seating plan, you being slightly strange, Mona being annoyed, and your scream of annoyance when she disappeared off with Caesar.”

“I didn’t scream. It was a huff of displeasure.”

“Well, your huff echoed down the mountain,” Charlie replied, noting he was close enough to smell the orange and spice of her perfume. “…Why did you feel the need to do that? It’s not like Mona and I have much in common.”

“You do!” Pansy exclaimed. “There’s dragons… and work… and me.”

“Now even your ego isn’t big enough to expect two people to base a relationship on discussing you.”

“Lies. What do you think the main topic of conversation was in any of my romantic entanglements?”

“You haven’t answered the question. _Why_ , Pans?”

She took a deep breath, casting her eyes away from his. Charlie leant closer. He did not want to push answers out of her that she was not willing to give, yet at the same time he could not help but draw nearer to her. There was a magnetism to Pansy in her height, manner and aggressive wit. It attracted or repulsed. His hand slipped from her back round to her waist, before he remembered himself and stepped back slightly.

“You don’t have to answer me- sorry, it-“

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Pansy said. The place where his hand had been felt ghostly cold with its absence. “Your one of my closest friends. So is she. I thought you could make each other happy.”

Charlie was not quite sure how to swallow this or respond. Instead, he leant forward and kissed her hairline, in a gesture too intimate and too companionable to make sense of.

“I am happy. I’m so sorry I put you in a position where you think you have to worry about me. Don’t. I’ll keep myself safe- if only to avoid your wrath.” He gave her a reassuring, and annoying infectious grin, before his eyes grew watchful. “Is there something else bothering you?”

“Oh, I’m a little sad about Christmas. My Mother has decided that only she will get to see my brother. He’s the only non-sociopath in my family. In fact he’s the sole family member I actually like…. And yet is ironically the only one in Azkaban.”

Pansy pressed her lips together, watching Charlie process this information. She had told him this this on that dark night. She was not quite sure what he felt about it.

The blue eyes held her carefully. “Come to mine for Christmas.“ Pansy almost laughed and collapsed at the notion. “My family love company and a busy house. An obvious fact seeing how many siblings I have. It may not be a fancy event. But it’ll be loud and messy and much improved by your presence. You’d make the whole endeavor much more bearable for me. My family are bored silly by my dragon anecdotes and may wet themselves with joy at having the most interesting person I know in the house… Mother may try and marry us on the spot, however that’s a risk any female undertakes when breaching our doorstep.”

The offer warmed her from inside out, like the toasty buzz you got from wizard chocolate. It would be lovely, a Weasely Christmas. All wholesome and mad. There probably would not be casual threats of violence over the dinner table or insults round the Christmas tree (or perhaps there would be, considering that the majority of the Weasely’s were her childhood enemies).

“… That’s one of the best and nicest invitations I’ve ever received, Charlie. Sadly, I’ve already sorted something out… but thank you. Really.” She found his fingers and squeezed them briefly. The reassuring callouses enveloped her hand.

“In that case…” he replied, eyes looking a touch heavy, as if disappointed. He ruffled his hair in his typical gesture of awkwardness. “Do you want me to set you up with one of my friends? … Is that what friends do? I know you like Markus…”

Pansy screamed with laughter. “Oh, Charlie. It’s not a body swap. And no, not Markus. That’s just a joke. Plus he’s sleeping with Wynne.”

“WHAT?”

She nodded wisely, enjoying his surprise. “Yep, for ages now. Where did you think they had both snuck off to?”

Charlie looked flabbergasted. “I-I, well, I didn’t.”

“It’s good you like dragons, you’d have had little success as a detective.”

“I don’t know if I’m more surprised or disturbed.”

Another song erupted from the Wireless- a Weird Sisters classic, “There’s no curse strong enough to escape our love.” Toothpick grabbed Luna and whisked some of the others to the radio. Arms started waving, feet tapping. The music elicited mad dance moves from them all that made Pansy pale at their lack of rhythm.

Wordlessly, Charlie held out a gentlemanly hand to her. There was a wicked glint to his eye and pleased smile on his square face. Eyes-rolling, she took his palm, barely concealing her own grin. Wine spilled down their fingers as they span and skipped to the music, singing loud and resounding on the mountaintop. In the fading darkness, her lungs bursting with song and limbs aching with dance, she had a thrill remembering she was still alive. There were people in the world still living and breathing who she loved. Like heart-break, the world after the Wizarding War was painful, but it didn’t stop you perpetuating. It felt cruel, sometimes, living when your insides were shattered. Yet there were still glimmers of brilliance and times where life was a little less painful.

When the sun came up, pockets of wranglers were collapsed to the floor exhausted. Matching the other pairs of people, Charlie and she shared a blanket, wine and fatigue making this familiarity easy and thoughtless.

The dawn blushed a lovely pink. In the heedless contentment of the morning, Pansy let her eyes succumb to tiredness and ignored the glorious horizon before her. She let her head settle on Charlie’s broad, sure shoulder, mildly noticing as she drifted off that Charlie’s hand was still entwined with hers.

 


	17. Chapter 17

The impeccably dressed traitor and his shadowy companion strode arm and arm in a land that looked built for them.

The monolithic garden shined ethereal and ghostly under the gaze of the moon, the trees rising up with black skeletal hands to obscure the imposing silhouette of Malfoy Manor.

Pansy felt strangely serene in the cold. Draco’s sharp smile turned to her every now and then, infinitely relieved that his house was not quite empty during these wintry days.

“Draco!” Pansy suddenly exclaimed, noting that his gaze had grown melancholy. “I had no idea you could do a Patronus.”

Her long arm pointed at a regal, albino peacock perched on a bench and looking affronted at the excessive amount of snow.

“Very droll,” Draco replied.

After a flying visit home, where she had deigned to air kiss her Mother goodbye and implored her to take Pellinore’s Christmas presents (no doubt, gifts that she would take credit for), Pansy packed a bag and apparated to Malfoy Manor. It was a place where she had spent many a pleasant, if terrified visit. The Malfoys always gave the impression that they were constantly testing you for acceptability, and that no matter how inadvertently (or otherwise) rude they were to you, your manners had to remain unimpeachable. Pansy being a wealthy Slytherin who in her teenage years did have a tendency to simper, was classed as a socially acceptable companion but by no means an equal. Her parents were ambiguous as to their Dark Lord sympathies and for all their social climbing and ambition, had little to offer in terms of politics and power. Edgar Parkinson was a good man to know if you were in legal difficulty and could afford the fee, but was not from the Old Blood. Nor was he particularly intriguing at parties. His wife, of the old pureblood stock, was wonderful in terms of connections and showing everyone a good time… yet was not known to be exactly respectable or trustworthy.

This left Pansy in an interesting position, and often caused her to wonder whether her parents were actually quite wise in terms of their chosen social niche. Pansy was a suitable person to know. Not a main player, nor a grunt. She would never be at the center of political secrets, but she was there. A spider sitting on the best place in a web.

In the midst of the little hedge maze, as a topiary cat pounced along the frozen flowerbeds. Pansy strangled a laugh. She bet Weasley never thought of himself in such a fashion when relating to his friends. For him it was probably as simple as “Hmm, these people seem nice.” How wonderfully straightforward.

“You alright there, Parkinson?” questioned Draco imperiously, looking offended not to be included on the joke and worried that it was about him.

There was slight colour on his pallid cheeks and his frame looked less skeletal- almost bordering on healthy- so unlike the consumptive figure she’d left on the train platform. The work Pansy had organized for him, tinkering with magical gadgets in a Diagon Alley emporium, seemed to suit him very well though he complained about it endlessly. Apparently the people were bores, the work either trivial or impossible, the clientele frankly common… yet it sounded like the staff found his eccentric ways, faultless manners and skill endearing. Silently, Pansy congratulated herself on a job well done. At least this friend allowed himself to be manipulated into happiness unlike that uncompromising red head.

“Nothing. I had hoped that you were joking about the sentient topiary… But alas...”

“That topiary cost more than your town house.”

“How embarrassing for you.”

They shared a cold smile, and Pansy looped her arm through his. In the past, he flipped between being graciously gentlemanly with these gestures and scorning them. Relief flooded through her as he accepted her arm.

While they walked along the path, ice crunching beneath their feet like the bones of their enemies, Draco leant across and placed a fleeting kiss on her head. For a moment, it reminded her of the kiss Charlie had placed on her brow as they talked on that mountain, fire and smoke and darkness billowing around them.

“I’ve missed you, Parkinson,” he admitted, grey eyes looking gently into her own.

Annoyance and pleasure warmed her. He had said these things in the past, of course. Sometimes to get something, always when they were alone. She never knew if they were lies or just useful truths. Ambiguity hardened her stomach.

“Obviously,” she answered, defenses up.

Pansy was not silly enough to admit to feelings that could hurt her later. Yet she was aware that the smile on her lips betrayed her, and that no amount of withdrawn responding was going to protect her from Draco.

 

* * *

  

Charlie marched around the Burrow. He had (without magic) cut firewood, cleaned the gutters, de-gnomed the garden, forced his father to accompany him on a seven mile walk to say hello to the nearest neighbours, cleaned all the washing and was now frantically wandering around the garden looking for something, _anything_ , to do.

“Charlie Weasley!” called his Mother.

“Yes, Mum?” he hollered back, contemplating whether the ivy on the house needed trimming or whether he should go and cut down a second Christmas tree.

“Get inside, you’ll catch your death of cold. You’ve done more than enough busy bodying today. Come in and have a brew.”

He trudged in solemnly, meeting Molly’s strict gaze at the doorway. She gave him a peck on the cheek, bustling him into the warmth where she plied him with blankets and mince pies. Charlie had repeatedly told her that after braving the icy temperatures of the Romanian mountains, he found the stuffy warmth of home more than bearable.

“You’re such a love to all the odd jobs. With his business, I bet George has completely forgotten how to properly de-gnome a garden. Apparently, he’s _hired_ a house elf to do all that. Not that I’ve seen too much of him recently… at least not this week. I was speaking to Ron the other day when he popped in with Hermione, he said he thought George was seeing a girl.”

Charlie bet George would be thanking Ron for that favour later. Probably with his fists. He sipped his tea nonchalantly, trying not to look at the Weasley family clock. Occasionally some of the dials would flick from Work to Travelling to Home. One dial remained still, stuck on Mortal Peril as it would forever. Charlie could not conceive how his parents could live in such unchanging domesticity with that reminder forever on their wall. Fred was always his ghost. He needed no reminder.

“On that topic, is there anyone in your life, Charlie?” his Mother enquired, without even attempting subtlety. “You know I wouldn’t ask, but you seem a bit changed from last time. Lighter.”

He smiled. For once he was strangely comforted by his Mother’s nosiness. If he had Pansy’s sharp mind, he was sure he could come up with some witty line about being an eternal bachelor… instead he shrugged.

“No, but we’ve got a nice group up in Romania at the moment. Luna’s there of course, and Professor Scamander… there’s a girl called Pansy who took a bit of time to come round to the whole dragon idea, but she loves it now. Practically the first one up to feed the Longhorns in the morning…”

Molly’s eyes twinkled knowingly as Charlie told tale after tale of the last few months. He edited slightly, noting when his dragon-related anecdotes made her pale with worry.

At the end of the day, he thrust himself onto his old, patchwork quilt. The room felt very empty and very small without Bill sharing it with him. Molly and Arthur had headed to bed early, and Charlie had done the same. The silence of the house was unbearable without the raucous noise of his siblings or the nattering of wranglers. Staring off, he wondered what Pansy was doing and whether he should have pressed his case about Christmas. The arm he had embraced her with on that cold morning felt empty without her.

There was a lovely nostalgia about returning to the Burrow. But at the same time he found it paralyzing. There was little to do, little to exert himself with. By lunch he knew he would be brain dead with boredom. His siblings and their ever growing list of other halves would not be there for a few days. What he wouldn’t give for a challenging conversation with Pansy, or one of her off-colour jokes. He’d even settle for an argument with the way things were going.

In the oppressive dark he thought of her, hoping she was okay, not even daring to wish she were thinking of him.

  

* * *

 

  

Pansy contemplated the dresses before her. To her surprise, all the perpetual eating in Romania had done little to her figure due to the continuous movement and exertion. She had never been self-conscious about her figure, not really. It definitely was more… present that some of the stick-thin girls in her year. Her not-so-dear Mama had always made reference to her “big bones”- just another thing that her mother was pleased and disappointed with. However, Pansy was happy with how she looked. Part of it was a natural Parkinson arrogance that assumed that they were the best-looking thing in the room even if they resembled the tail-end of a Thestral. She did not have the classic beauty of Daphne Greengrass, or the impossible looks of Fleur Delacour. Far from it. She was attractive by choice. Her style –ever since those unfortunate days of pink, frilly dress robes- was faultless. And no man in a moment of recklessness had ever told her to put her clothes back on. She fooled everyone into thinking she was attractive with sheer confidence and pigheadedness to the contrary.

She selected a black dress with delicate lace that was almost suggestive in it’s conservatism. A bracelet thick with diamonds adorned her wrist, and two emeralds glinted from her ears. She let her hair fall thick and curling in a natural look that had taken an hour to master. All in all, it worked. For a brief moment Pansy missed the easy sweaters and leather boots she would throw on in Romania with half a care to how one looked… until she caught sight of herself in an antique mirror and realized how unconquerably arresting her reflection was. In fact, Pansy could almost convince herself that she suited the intimidating Malfoy Manor with it’s gaping fireplaces, tall, thin windows and endless labyrinth of corridors.

She could not imagine being a child growing up here. Although she adored castles (they aided the regal fantasies she entertained), the Manor was something else. It was built to show off and intimidate. Stone snakes slunk over bannisters, wrapped around table legs and were found even on doorknobs. Shadows were unnaturally long in the dim light, and the place was so big it was possible to imagine that you were entirely alone in the endless corridors of silence and painted, moving eyes.

The thought chilled Pansy as the quiet of the house echoed around her. It would be terrible to grow up here. It would be terrible to perpetuate in the quiet when the only thing to contemplate was your past sins and the ghosts of old friends. Heart beating unnaturally, she forced herself to walk calmly down the stairs. Seeing Draco would help. He seemed so at ease in this place, like a coat he could shrug on. She knew it was not entirely the case. It was his Father’s house still, and that thought haunted him with all the disappointment and hatred that it connoted.

She decided not to take the main staircase. Tripping on the high steps was less of a likelihood and more of an inevitability. Also, she detested the terribly still paintings on the wall. Pansy was used to paintings moving, flitting from frame to frame to have a gossip or game of cards. The paintings in Draco’s house could move, but they much preferred to stay in their own domain, and stare imposingly down at you from up high- much like the current Malfoys. There was a back stairway than was built in a dizzying spiral down the side of the building and led to an alcove right next to the study. From past experience, Pansy knew she could creep round the corner and not be instantly within sight.

Her legs, used to hill walking and striding imperiously on, powered down the stairs before her ears could catch up with her mind. Voices came from the study, and it took Pansy a moment to recognize her own name.

“… We have often discussed the topic of your marriage, Draco,” came the voice of Narcissa. Her distinctive tone was unmistakable, vowels rounded and as clear as cut glass.

“Yes, Mother,” replied Draco. Pansy could not quite tell whether his voice was uncertain. Her own heart hesitated.

“Our family…” Narcissa was not one to stumble on her words, yet it seemed like she was having trouble deciding which sentence to go down. “Your Father and I married for love.”

Pansy leant forward, hardly daring to breath. She should not be listening to this conversation, yet every fiber of her being knew she was not going to leave. In the crack of light from the study door, she saw Draco’s back stiffen. His Mother stood before him behind the desk, looking like a Queen or mafia don. Unlike the way her own Mother gazed at her, there was affection in Narcissa’s eye when she looked upon Draco. It was the only warm part of her frozen exterior. Pansy had always admired that about Narcissa Malfoy, and had always wanted to emulate it- the cold, hard respectability. It was so different to her own Mother’s careless laughs and inconsiderate manner. Pansy was well aware that Narcissa looked down on her, and disliked the shallow association of her Mother and the past rumors of a dalliance with Lucius, but even so she could not help but respect her.

“Our families believed it to be a good match. Similar wealth, breeding, ambitions, respectability… but we did also love each other.”

“I’m not sure that did much good.”

Pansy felt her hand smother her lips. A gasp had almost escaped. Draco adored Narcissa. Even though his tone was submissive, his words were practically outright rebellion. This was the boy who idolized his parents. Every decision of theirs, no matter how stupid or dangerous, was followed by him to the letter.

“Admittedly, life did not quite work out how we had planned,” Narcissa granted, a ghost of an emotion entering her eye. “In the past, we had advised you about your marriage prospects. I would like to re-address a previous judgment. About Pansy.”

Draco flinched, but the back of his head revealed no secrets. Pansy’s own mind was a mess. She could not even work out what she was thinking.

“She has a suitable background, although her breeding is somewhat in question. However in this climate… she may even be a wise choice in how the Malfoys are perceived.”

“I’m so glad.” Draco’s voice was cold.

“Forgive me, dear one. This is a difficult thing for me to address. The girl has impressed me. In her loyalty to you, in the way she has aided in finding you work. There has been a change in you that I believe it is down to this young woman, and for that I am ever in her debt. Beyond the banalities of affection, she also impresses me in her scope. She comes from an ambitious family. In this new age, we may need a bit of new thinking.”

Narcissa placed a small, black box before her son. On the impossibly large desk, it looked like a black hole usurping all thought and feeling into what it meant.

“So I’m giving you Ethel Lestrange’s wedding ring.”

“Ethel Lestrange’s _cursed_ wedding ring?”

His Mother crossed the desk and approached her son. They turned so that their profiles stood stark, each a mirror of the other.

“Rumor has it you’re good at fiddling with that sort of thing,” Narcissa replied, raising an amused, imperious brow. She kissed him on the cheek. “You are sure you won’t spend Christmas with your Father and I?”

“No, Mother,” he replied, looking shaken. “Never.”

“I love you, Draco. The ring is yours to do with as you wish. Have a good Christmas.”

Pansy knew she had to move. Narcissa was not going to leave before bidding goodbye to her guest, but she could hardly appear from around the corner. She collected herself… and had a foolish but genius idea.

She apparated at the other end of the corridor. The _pop_ of her returning to existence announced her arrival in a polite, cursory manner. Taking a breath, she casually strolled down the thick carpet. Her typical way to manage her terror of Malfoy Manor was to pretend that she was its owner… but that felt to close to heart at this moment. Inelegantly, she poked her head round the corner, noting that Draco had stuffed the ring in his pocket.

“Mrs Malfoy, you look lovely this evening,” Pansy noted. Narcissa, naturally, let this compliment wave over her as if someone had just noted that she was breathing. “Draco, you seem as per usual.”

“Did you just apparate down here?” Draco asked, his typical sneer slipping to his lips.

“Manners, Draco,” said Narcissa.

“Quite right, Mother. Pansy, good evening. You look quite enchanting… Did idleness overcome you and cause you to skip the mere yards it would have taken to walk here?”

“Oh Draco, how adorable. You’re trying to insult people the way I do. Mimicry is the height of flattery, but not if you continue to do it quite so badly.”

“I think you’ve met your match, Draco,” said Narcissa smoothly. As adept liars none of them made any sign that this was an unusual comment. Draco raised an eyebrow, and Pansy forced an overly enthused smile as if this was the epitome of praise. “Anyway, I’ll bid you goodbye, Pansy. It was lovely seeing you… and I’ll pass your respects on to you Mother if I see her.”

Narcissa then pecked Pansy on the cheek- a display of affection far above and beyond she had ever displayed before, and strode off without another word.

“So…” began Draco, louche and leaning against the desk. The clean lines of his clothes highlighted his waist and broad shoulders, lengthening him. Pansy was a sucker for good tailoring. “A week of unsupervised debauchery lays before us. Shall we start with the gin?”

“Please.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dinner was interesting. Though the new house elf over did the meat and boiled the vegetables beyond recognition. Draco and Pansy were abjectly ignoring this culinary disaster. Instead they were both concentrating on being light, almost shallow, in their conversation and drinking so much that they were almost incomprehensible by the end of the starter.

Occasionally, Pansy would stare round the large dining room with its countless windows and inconveniently high ceiling, and think “This could be mine. Everything the light touches… or doesn’t touch. Even the shadowy, scary bits. Mine.”

It was a fantasy of her youth. The potential for this to be a possibility made her slightly queasy, and down her red wine even faster.

Red wine. Red hair. Weasley.

 _Idiot_. Why think of that?

Merlin, she was drunk.

The ruby liquid warmed in her hand. It was almost antique, it’s bottle covered in dust and cobwebs. It tasted thick and heavy, but not quite as sweet as the cheap mulled wine she had drunk on the mountaintop. The honeyed taste that went with loud music, laughing friends, forehead kisses, and that surreal morning where she had woken stiff and warm next to a body she did not expect. Nothing had happened that night, but what had transpired felt more uncomfortably intimate than sex or kissing or bared skin.

“Pansy,” Draco’s voice was loud. His eyes were blurred and close to hers. “You’re ignoring me-“

“I should ignore you. Idiot.”

“…I was about to say that your glass is empty, and that is a problem which I will put all my effort into solving.”

“An idiot-genius. An id-enius. Gen-iot.”

They wandered down to the wine cellar- a place of Pansy’s dreams. Lines and lines of emerald bottles. Descriptions beyond imagination and occasionally pronunciation. She had flicked off her shoes, slipping merrily down the steps, and without thinking took Malfoy’s hand in her own. Touching had always been easy for her. His thin, pianist fingers felt so smooth in her own. Hands that had done little but wield a wand, steer a broom and fiddle with gadgets. The bones of his knuckles brushed her skin. They took two bottles each, each probably worth a small fortune in galleons, and giggled their way to the kitchen.

“Where’s that house elf?” Draco demanded. “I’m starving!”

“I can cook,” Pansy boasted, taking a saber casually from the walls and using it to uncork the wine bottle.

“Yeah, and in his part time Blaise Zabini plays for the Holyhead Harpies dressed as his doppelganger Blair Zabriani.” Draco took the bottle from Pansy and drank straight from it. “Though, knowing Blaise…”

“Sit down, you lush,” Pansy commanded, a strong hand pushing him down upon a chair from which he promptly slid onto the floor.

She emerged victorious from the pantry holding a sling of sausages aloft. “Ye of little faith, watch as I create a meal fit for kings.”

A fraught time later (the ministry should really put laws in place about wand work while inebriated), and they were both munching on delicious, burnt sausage sandwiches.

“I want to be disgusted that you demeaned yourself to cook these,” slurred Draco from the floor. “But mostly I’m just thankful. Oh, food. You’ve never disappointed me. You’ve never put outrageously high expectations on my shoulders. You’ve never asked me to murder a well-loved public figure.”

“Stop putting so much pressure on the sausage sandwich. And you should really be thanking” _Weasley_. Stop it, drunk brain. Stop your mad circles back to him. But don’t think about Draco and that ring either. That way lies madness. Think about sausage sandwiches. Yum. Not quite as good as Charlie’s. How did he manage to get them so- _Goddammit_. “Me. You should really be thanking me.”

“I just did,” muttered Draco, his face inelegantly sliding down the table leg. “Attention-grabbing wench.”

“Snotty inbred.”

“Pug-nosed social climber.”

“Dark Lord minion.”

Draco’s eyes lost their fuzzy look, widened and stared at her. Pansy met his gaze right back. He said the P-word. All bets were off… however the unspeakableness of what she had just said reigned upon them. Her heart beat counted time loudly in her chest.

The silence cracked with laughter.

It could have been tiredness and wine. It could have been that some things are too terrible and too big that there is no choice but to cackle. It was terrible. It was a terrible thing to laugh at. And for some reason that kept them laughing until their eyes watered and they were both slumped on the kitchen floor clutching their stomachs in a most undignified, and un-Slytherin manner.

“You’re a horrible person,” managed Draco eventually.

“Um, you’re the Dark Lord’s ex-minion. I remained neutral.”

“Oh, forgive me. You’re obviously the moral compass the Wizarding World has been missing. By Merlin, Pansy, that was not an okay thing to tease about.”

He looked seriously into her eye, trying to convey hurt and betrayal…. And they keeled over in an encore of giggles. In a move that was not as subtle as he thought, Draco slipped his arm around Pansy. Intuitively she curled around him, nestled in the crook of his body, a place she had always thought of as hers. A sickening twist moved in her stomach as she thought of how the wranglers and Luna would have perceived this. Not well. Not well at all. In an awful way, this unforgiveable mirth felt almost okay just to see Draco laugh.

“I’ve missed you, Pans,” Draco said, for the second time that day.

She could not get away from him this time. His breath was on her cheek, and his fingers played gently with her hair. It was just the pair of them, reveling in their own dreadfulness, drunk and happy on the kitchen floor. There was no way she could not say it.

“I’ve missed you too, Draco. Although I shouldn’t have.”

He looked troubled and traced the line of her cheekbone, frowning. His thumb briefly kissed her lip before dropping to her chin. They leant into each other, lips inevitably meeting. Two forces drawn together. Draco’s lips moved as they always had, knowing her inside and out. She responded in turn, their kiss deep and careful. They broke apart. Too unsure to smile, too affected to speak.

From his pocket he took out the tiny, black box. The clasp was a small snake’s head which he flicked open easily with his fingers. Inside was an emerald so dark it looked almost ebony. Like Pansy, it wasn’t beautiful but striking. The stone nestled in a clutch of smaller diamonds on a silver band she knew would fit on her finger.

“Your Mother deemed me acceptable,” Pansy whispered, voice colourless. She was unable to look at Draco. Whether this was a dream or a nightmare she wasn’t sure.

“Yes, I thought she would have engineered it for you to overhear that conversation. Don’t put it on by the way, not right now.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“And I haven’t asked. I’m warning you. That ring will chop your finger off.”

“How romantic.”

“It’s the Malfoy way,” he replied sardonically. “I’m a little bit suspect to do as my parents ask nowadays. It’s why when I took a job, at your suggestion not theirs. Ironically, they’ve decided now is the time to give me something that I’ve always wanted. Approval to do as I wish.”

The whole world stilled for Pansy. Draco had the ability to hurt and please her in a way no one else could. She felt like she was balancing on a knife-edge, not sure what she wanted to hear.

“This is not a proposal. It’s a proposal to propose. We fit, Pansy. We fit perfectly. We know more about each other than anyone else could or would be allowed to know. You mean something to me… I want whatever future is possible to be with you. I don’t know whether I want to take over the world or rot away in this place licking my wounds. But I want it to be with you. I want to see what a future with you is like. Together, we could be great.”

He meant powerful, she knew. She felt dizzy. The wine and her past ran her thoughts mad. It would have been such a simple answer at one point. Draco was her greatest desire and greatest foible. Yet there was something so very different now. Draco had betrayed her again and again, and she had forgiven him each time. She could not forgive on Luna and Weasley’s behalf. The pain he had caused them was her pain now. These were thoughts she could not verbalize, a part of her felt they would turn to ash or ridicule on her tongue.

The feelings she now held for Luna and Charlie were locked strong in her chest- a Slytherin is loyal above all- as were the feelings she held for Draco. His place in her heart was much deeper, and darker, and so inextricably linked with her past and herself that she had no idea what to do or where to run. There was no answer. There was just Draco looking at her with a need she felt obliged to answer.

So she kissed him and whispered “I’m already great. I’ll take your proposal under advisement, you lunatic.”

“Our demons would play well together,” he added, smiling like a sickle moon.

Pansy breathed in his scent, unsure if it were happiness or dread playing with her heartbeat. “That’s what worries me.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

They fell into bed together faster than either expected.

After pulling their wine-infused bodies up the stone stairway, it felt strangely inevitable that both ended up in Draco’s room. Neither wanted to be alone, and neither wanted the other to ruminate in private on what had passed. Pansy dropped jewel after jewel carelessly on the floor while Draco loosened the neck of his dress robes.

Exhausted and with the common Parkinson manner of making herself at home anywhere, she did not wait for permission but stretched herself cat-like across the four-poster bed. Draco watched with heavy eyes before joining her on top of the covers, slipping an arm around her form. She curled into him, placing a kiss on his cheek and resting her head on the hard, uncomfortable rise of his chest. Draco shifted so that his forehead rested against her own.

As quickly as they had fallen there, did they drift as swiftly into sleep.

  

* * *

 

 

Pansy woke in the harsh winter light. Beside her, Draco slept like the dead, his breath shallow and whispery. They had drifted apart in the night; she curled away from him, and his arm swept across his body, closing around himself. As she watched the stillness of his enviously long eyelashes she felt a secret, sudden thrill.

Last night, Draco had asked to marry her.

The realization went through her like limb-shuddering, nausea-inducing lightening. All she had ever wanted was sleeping next to her and was enclosed around her in the walls of Malfoy Manor.

As ever, joy was brief.

All Pansy wanted was to wrap herself in this fantasy and throw herself whole heartedly into living the life of Pansy Malfoy (or Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy or…no, it didn’t ring true. She’d mull over that one). Yet she could not even bring herself to slip under Draco’s arm or wake him with a kiss and snide joke- though she desperately desired to. A wall had been built inside her long ago. A wall that she constantly contemplated taking down or building higher.

For every brick laid, there had been a disappointment. Any cruelty against her person often led Pansy to feel less angry at the perpetrator and more angry at herself for feeling the hurt. A Parkinson should be above anyone causing them pain. Callousness at another’s hand is purely a punishment for caring excessively. And yet she cared. Constantly and far too intensely. Look at how easily a bunch of Gryffindors and dragon wranglers crept into her heart, and with equal ease how Draco had shattered it again and again.

For all the love she felt for him, Pansy saw Draco as he was. His selfishness, his weakness, his ignorance. The pity was, she forgave him all this. Draco was interesting, fiercely loyal, unfathomably clever (as well as being quite idiotic). He was a product of his parents, but made her laugh like no other could. Even now the thought of him doing a perfectly re-enacted Potter-esque faint across the dining hall table brought a smile to her lips.

It was always a war within her- to be hard and cold or red-blooded and loving. Neither came easily.

Impatience grew within. She needed so many answers. As nice as the warmth of the bed was (along with the surprising lack of hangover), questions burned inside her ribcage. She wanted to slip a hand up his chest. She wanted him to repeat those words. She wanted as she had always wanted, _him_.

However, you do not live a life of a Slytherin and one of Draco’s closest confidents without garnering natural suspicions.

For a moment she prepared to wait for him to wake, as she had waited for him all along… But was that not the issue? She was forever at his whim, forever in the dark. This embarrassing recognition caused her to shudder and rise from the bed. Parkinson’s don’t wait, they demand. If she wanted answers, Pansy would find them herself.

The bedroom door closed behind her, and she made her way barefoot, quiet and quizzical, down the corridors that may one day be her own.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually consciousness disturbed him, and Draco’s once relaxed face took on it’s slight scowl. Sneering lips upturned, finally settling on their typical snide angle. He turned toward where he believed Pansy to be. Finding her gone, he felt indignant. Such rudeness really was not acceptable in a houseguest, but this was Pansy, and Draco recognized that as much as she tried to be the elegant ice queen, a crudeness subsisted in her.

She was not in the kitchen, the pantry, nor the reading room. The library was empty, as was the drawing room. The second drawing room and the portrait gallery stank of spilt alcohol, but they too were empty.

Coldness swept through the hall and Draco sniffed his nose disdainfully. A cold seemed to be coming on, which far from improved his mood. Neither did the reminders that the Manor was wearing away. Room after room was filled with furniture hidden under protective sheets, turning the opulent quarters he had known in his youth into rooms filled with phantoms. Occasionally there were gaps on the walls where old portraits had been sold for a quick galleon. Shame curdled at the sight of these reminders. Centuries of Malfoy wealth, good breeding and pride dashed. All because he had failed to live up to his parent’s hopes and kill a frail old man. Guilt dug an elbow into his stomach. Logically he could see this was not the issue. His parents had bet on the wrong, psychopathic horse and this was the result. He regretted, though too late, the actions they had taken… but more than anything he regretted his failure.

It was silly to ruminate. He had spent days locked in his room gasping over the guilt. The enormity of his sins was too great. A man should not live, nor be allowed to live, with such failure in moral and expectation. Soft words from his mother and hard words from Pansy had drawn him out. A slow realization had taken hold; if they could forgive him then perhaps he could still have a use. Perhaps it could be done to exist in such a fashion. Narcissa still loved him despite failing the family and Pansy still loved him even though she knew the truth. Draco could decide to be the beast, not fear it.

Moral failure seemed inevitable and he was not quite sure what he could do to bleach their blackened name. If he could rebuild the Malfoy empire and make their family matter once again… then at least one of his worries would be addressed. With Pansy and the comfort that she knew his failings, and still accepted him, perhaps it was possible to endure and to succeed?

The last room he reached was his father’s study. Burns of broken hexes had charred the corner of the door. Draco raised an eyebrow. Naturally, Parkinson would have no respect for boundaries, the impropriety of arson or the discourtesy of dismantling security spells.

Inside amongst the forest of mahogany furniture she sat, hair awry, brow lowered, knees caught up in the black lace of her dress. Legal papers, which had previously been hidden in a charm-protected draw, lay before her. Draco knew every word and figure on those flimsy pieces of parchment. Bills and bank statements. More black marks against the family name. Controlled anger lit inside him.

“Why do you want to marry me, Draco?”

“Good morning, Pansy. How did you sleep? I slept fantastically, thank you for asking, though it was like cooping up with a giant snoring cat. I should perhaps note that waking to see the protective charms on the study disarmed (by what seems to be the work of a rhino with a wand) has not exactly brightened my day-“

He stopped himself as he saw how her dark, angry gaze did not change.

The row of papers lay between them like a line in the sand. _Cross if you dare._

In truth it was not like that. Not quite. Pansy wanted Draco to dare. She wanted him to move towards her, to prove his own want. She had learnt long ago that her forwardness and ease were not beloved qualities. A kiss or touch from her could be greeted with scorn or willing reciprocity from him. His heedless, unpredictable disdain had long taught her to wait for him to make the move. She hated her passivity only less than she hated his contempt.

Draco, hair in elegant disorder, crossed the line without a thought. Whether it was his upbringing or the way Pansy had learned to leave any initiation to him, Draco never had any qualms as to what he thought he was entitled to. He never thought a kiss would go unwanted. He never worried about inciting her derision.

He leaned over her, gliding his body over hers. A bony hand met her cheek, as a quizzical eye looked into her own.

“All I said last night was true. We’d be strong. We’d understand each other. We’d be happy… as much as either of us could be. Our families would benefit from the union. Your background would somewhat un-sully the Malfoy name, and my name would add to your breeding.”

He did not lie, which she was glad of. He rolled off the advantages; monetary, influence… She would have suspected him if he had not. They were things she desired, but as always she desired more.

“Money, you say?” interrupted Pansy, looking at the treasure trove of legal papers before. “You haven’t a sickle.”

If Draco was one to blush from anger or embarrassment, he would have. However he accepted that as his future wife, Pansy had a right to know.

“The fortune is still there. It’s just frozen while the court proceedings continue. The prosecution really lacks a foot to stand on and are just being difficult. I did not mean to mislead you in that way…”

“The money doesn’t matter, Draco,” replied Pansy, trying not to enjoy the warmth of his hand on her cheek.

“Money always matters-“

“No. I’m wealthy enough in my own right. And… the logic is sound.” Her voice sounded flat. “Our families would both benefit from the union. But that isn’t the issue.”

“What is?” replied Draco, sincerely confused, grey eyes blinking.

“Do you love me?”

Her cheeks heated just saying the words. It felt stupid. She felt stupid needing those reassurances. There were actions that proved love, and love itself proved nothing. People were so changing that affection could not be relied upon. And what was that ridiculous feeling? Broken into it’s constituent parts love was attraction, loyalty, support… and those are things she would not doubt in their alliance.

The line of his lips grew hard and his eyes serious. “Yes,” he replied. “I think so. There’s no one else I would trust as my wife, and I trust you Pansy beyond anything.”

Pansy could not quite smile, though she felt happy. An I-think-I-love-you was more than she had ever hoped from Draco. She would not have believed him if it had been a pure, straightforward yes. They were people with labyrinths inside them and sometimes love got lost.

And then Draco asked a question which Pansy would never have expected.

“Do… do you love me?”

Those words felt foreign in her ears, just as they had sounded bizarre on Draco’s tongue. The off-kilter vulnerability that was so un-Draco won her over more than any diamonds or poetry could.

Instead of answering, she broke her own rule and kissed him. Taken aback, Draco flinched back initially… but slowly leaned into her, kissing with lips and teeth and tongue.

And just like that, Pansy broke like a promise and felt her world burn around her.

 

* * *

 

 

Charlie stood in the center of Weasley Wizard Wheezes. By some strange feat, it was even madder than usual. Panicked-looking shop assistants flitted back and forth as the onslaught of shouty Christmas shoppers fought tooth and nail to reach the merchandise. Buzzing Whoppers flew in the air, fizzing with sparks and glitter, and Yarping Snaggletooths (the new pet of the moment) barked and growled from underfoot. Teens clutched love potions and parents suspiciously regarded the wares requested by their offspring for Christmas.

“ _No_ , Jeffery, I am most certainly not getting you a Houdini Handtrap,” tutted a particularly stressed looking mother as she gathered five pairs of “Float Away Shoes” and three hiccupping teacups.

Charlie felt incredibly uncomfortable in the bright, busy crowd though on the outside he looked his typical laid back self and was having a much better time of it than everyone else. There’s something about being built like a particularly muscular brick that makes people thing twice about elbowing you on their way to the sweet counter.

A Snaggletooth the shade of blood orange ran into Charlie’s ankle, instantly concussing itself on impact. It looked up innocently, it’s bizarre azure eyes fixing Charlie with an appraising gaze. The creature looked like a ridiculous pocket-sized wolf pup in desperate need of orthodontic treatment. It’s siblings yapped in containers in the corner of the room, their blinding neon shades with black speckles attracting child after child to coo at them. How this one escaped, Charlie couldn’t fathom. The impetuous beast growled at him and noting Charlie’s failure to cower in terror decided to be best friends instead. It wagged it’s tail and let out a distinctive purr.

Charlie gathered the pup in his arms, not even noticing how easily it had charmed to him. Animals had always got attached to him, even the scaly, man-eating ones.

The shop assistants were dressed in offensively florescent robes and had the desperate smiles and manic hair of Hermione during exam week. None of them were George. In fact George was nowhere to be seen amongst the mayhem, which even to Charlie’s naïve business acumen seemed rather worrying….

With the Snaggletooth clasped firmly in hand, Charlie dodged to the aubergine-coloured door at the back of the shop where Fred and George’s laboratory was hidden.

For two people who caused such constant mess, chaos and destruction, Fred and George tended to keep a very tidy, almost Percy-like workspace. The view beyond the aubergine door was not one of carefully arranged papers and prototypes that Charlie’ was used to. Instead dust lay heavy on the clutter giving it a look of gray-haired antiquity. Blueprints were torn up and hidden under strange contraptions, and in some cases diagrams were written on walls, napkins and desks. A sweet, sickly smell filled the air that Charlie suspected was emanating from the pile of rotting Pucking Pastelles by the door. At first glance it appeared the dark, dank room was empty.

“Georgie?” Charlie called out, an unsettling clench in his stomach causing him to use the childhood nickname. He put the Snaggletooth on the ground. The small beast immediately started to investigate the rotting gunk with glee.

A pile of paper dismantled with a cry of “Charlie!” and George appeared, pale but well, with the shadows of frustration on his face. On the desk before him lay a mysterious object, which had been disemboweled of its clockwork interior. The mechanism had the telltale scorch signs of an irritated wizard jabbing it with his wand.

Relief filled Charlie to see his brother seemingly well, if a bit dusty. He subdued the desire to ask him how he was. It was a stupid question, and one Charlie hated hearing himself.

“So… I like what you’ve done with the place,” Charlie said instead, admiring the potion formula on the wall that had degraded into an exceedingly rude picture.

“Thanks,” replied George jovially, giving the mechanism a foul look for good measure. “I always thought mold really made a place say ‘home’… or in this case ‘offensively gross office’. What brings you this way, oh wayward brother of mine? Wait let me guess… is it to check up on me for Mother? If so, you can tell her I’m alive. Still only missing the one body part.”

“Good to know- but that’s not why I’m here… well, partly.” If anything, Charlie was here to calm his own worries about that. “Mostly, I’m here to avoid her fussing… and to get your advice on a Christmas gift. For a girl.”

“A Hippogriff leg? The still beating heart of a man? I dunno. You’re the dragon expert.”

“No. A real, human girl.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” replied George, flicking one of the cogs on the desk with his forefinger. “I was just going to sign my name on Mum’s gifts to Hermione and Fleur. I’m sure she won’t mind you doing the same.”

“Er… no. It’s a girl who probably won’t become an in-law. It- well- she’s a friend?”

George paused. There was a tightness to his face that never used to be there. But then, for a second, it went.

“A friend _?_ ” Charlie could hear the question mark ringing out. “A _lady_ -friend? You have a lady-friend that is biologically a human? Like…. She doesn’t even breathe fire a little bit? Or have horns?”

“That is what I’m saying-“

“Not even the smallest hint of a tail?”

“ _No_ , George.”

“You’ve seen her tail area? This is a romantic, lady-friend?”

“NO! Yes! Maybe? I have no idea…” Charlie let out a groan.

A devilish look came over George’s face, all sharp and light. “And out of everyone you thought I would be the best one to help you out… and not, like, mock you incessantly?”

“The mocking was inevitable. But you’d be the best person. Ginny’s out of town, Percy would suggest I buy her a year’s supply of quills (and Ron may suggest the same, thinking about it). Bill is dealing with a far larger income and ego than I am… You’d be perfect. Despite the inevitable mocking.”

“That warms the cockles of my heart. Well, I don’t know how great the advice I can give will honestly be… especially as this piece of junk was meant to be a Christmas gift.”

George beckoned him over and turned the object over. Now right-side up, Charlie could see that the invention was a small Quidditch pitch with delicately wrought players held in the air by thin towers of copper. By the looks of it, it was a Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw game with two red headed beaters and one serious-looking (though comically lopsided) Oliver Wood as goalie.

“All Muggle clockwork. It’s meant to be of one of our first matches. Bloody complicated stuff though. I thought it would be a nice gift for Angelina,” George’s voice caught. Charlie ignored it.

Often with Charlie people assumed he was out of touch, ignorant of the subtleties of human emotion. If anything, it was the opposite. Charlie just understood that sometimes people would rather you treat them as strong or be unaware of their feelings than unearth them with callous kindness. An intelligent ignorance, almost. “She’s been very… kind recently. And her family is Muggle-born, so I thought this might be a nice gift,”

“It’s a perfect choice,” said Charlie, smiling expansively ang placing a warm hand on George’s shoulder. “See, I knew you’d be the perfect person to come to…”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you have a moment to comment, please do! I adore hearing what you think (good and bad), and it's always helpful for shaping future chapters :)

“No, Draco,” said Pansy firmly. “We’re not putting V.I.P: Very Important Pureblood on the invitations.”

“Too soon?”

“Too racist, you inbred moron.”

Pouting, Draco collapsed on the fainting chair like an Edwardian lady taken by a fit of the vapors. His bird-like wrist fluttered to his forehead in distress.

“My humour is just too modern and cutting edge for you. I was the class clown, you know. People prized my comedy in those dark adolescent days…”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t come up with the theme of ‘The Slytherin Survivors’ Club.’ And with Crabbe and Goyle as comedic contempories, I don’t really think there was much competition for the title…”

“You’re so cruel to me,” Draco replied, slipping from his place and stalking round to the back of Pansy’s chair. His grey eyes flashed, but there was a shadow of a smile in his sneer.

Pansy’s back tensed, but she let her eyes stay down demurely. Ignoring Draco was one of her favorite pleasures. Instead she continued her work on the invitations. Each one was written on vellum as soft as skin. The parchment itself was in a ‘festive’ black with the writing shining in silver. Economically, she stamped the Malfoy waxed seals on each of the parchments, careful not to turn round as Draco’s face got closer and closer to her neck.

“How can someone wearing a discombobulated sheep be so cruel?”

“It’s a jumper, Draco,” replied Pansy staying very still. She was intensely aware of his breath on her neck, and the way his nose just brushed her ear like so.

“Well, I don’t like it,” came the reply as a pair of lips murmured on her skin. He sharpened his words with a bite. “Take it off.”

 

* * *

 

 

The weather was frosty outside, and the chill felt like it emanated within Malfoy Manor no matter how many layers they wore or fires they lit.

Pansy was looking forward to the party. A full house of old friends who would smile and laugh and be alive. The days of drinking in Draco’s company and reveling in their tiny pocket of privacy were glorious but wearing Pansy thin. His moods were still grim, his views old-fashioned and she could see them falling into old habits; their old jokes being repeated, their old nerves being tested. With company they would shine and perform. Give them someone to show off for and they’d remember how lucky they were.

Occasionally Pansy was happy, or at least thought she was in a place where she could see happiness. Draco showed her his workshop where he took the knick-knacks from work to tinker with them further. Although, he often became so engrossed in the project at hand that Pansy felt like she was intruding. Likewise when she was writing essays or trying to explain the theory behind Dragon Fire, she could sense Draco’s discontent. He tried to poorly feign interest which she found grating. It felt a touch like he was humouring a bizarre hobby rather than acknowledging that she was doing an academically challenging, occasionally death-defying, postgraduate degree.

Further, the fact that such conversation could not entertain Draco beyond five minutes astounded Pansy, who could wax lexically for hours on the topic of dragons and professors and academic scandal. This divergence between them created a strange uneasiness within her. She was only content when his touches promised an affection that his words and interests could not.

Charlie’s letters were a godsend and a surprise. As were Luna’s and Mona’s and Millicent’s. But Charlie’s aversion to sending owls to those closest to him made the regular owls a pleasant shock. Every time his barn owl tapped at her window, she opened it with a grateful thrill.

“That one of your many lovers?” smirked Draco from the bed, as he reached across for coffee.

Pansy failed to rise to the joke, unusually, and lied. Her mind was elsewhere, being thankful that Charlie would have no idea that his owl found her in this place. Over morning coffee, as Draco read the newspaper and she guzzled ill-cooked eggs, she would respond to Charlie’s letters (utterly ignoring Draco’s complaints about the state of the Ministry or legal trouble or the sentient mold in the east wing or any numerous dull issues that she tried and failed to care about).

 

_My Mother is force-feeding me twelve meals a day. Perhaps she thinks if I have a heart attack I won’t leave home?..._

_Twelve meals? Pathetic, Weasley. Let me know when she refuses to buy any more food because a family friend “looked at her daughter as if she had the waist-line of an orca whale.” Then I’ll be sympathetic. However, my services are always available for impromptu midnight-rescues if ever the need arises. By the way, thanks for the article recommendation, it’ll be just the reference I need to make my essay implode the Professor’s mind with the force of it’s academic supremacy…_

_The need has arisen in the form of Aunt Gertrude and her virulent flatulence- Save me? Glad to hear it helped. Have you watched the Quidditch recently? Fiona Montgomery’s goal was astounding…_

_Give me a time and a place and I’ll blast you out of the domestic hell. Think my mind is eroding without the constant threat of draconic danger. How the hell have you survived the last dozen Christmases at home? It’s been five minutes since a dragon tried to kill me and I absolutely miss it…._

_I am going to preserve that last message for all eternity. Pansy Parkinson misses dragons. I’ll alert the Ministry and they’ll have a front page article in the Prophet tomorrow._

_The only recommendation I have is take lots of runs, acquire some dangerous siblings, take comfort in cake and…. And, well, read your letters, which (madly considering your lunatic personality) have kept me surprisingly sane. They’re not quite as good as the real thing though._

_Anyway, look forward to your next letter/imminent rescue._

_Miss you, Charlie._

Pansy dropped the letter delicately on the table, not realizing that it landed in her porridge. Her pulse throbbed in her stomach and all her effort went towards not having any response what so ever. It was difficult- like the feeling of cold sweat and joy and dread and the world rocking all around you.

But mostly she felt anger.

 _Boys_.

Boys were basically fucking buses. You spend most of your life living in some kind of dearth of bus desert, then one comes along that you’d pegged all your hopes on. But it’s a morally ambiguous bus and it’s not quite sure if it’s going to let you on or not. When it finally does look like it might deign to let you on, ANOTHER BLOODY BUS turns up and says something silly and confusing like “Miss you.”

Was it just politeness, or did those two little words mean an immense amount? A strange flutter lifted her stomach as she thought of Charlie and those two petulant syllables.

Pansy looked up, her stomach churning. Draco was having a bad day. Last night his mother had written, though about what Pansy was ignorant. Lilac shadows cradled his eyes, the hangover from a guilty, sleepless night. His toast was untouched and even the coffee had been neglected.

Instead Draco’s attention was wrapped up on the small, silver circle knelt in his palm. Muttering under his breath, he paused, frowned and carefully conducted intricate wrist movements with his wand.

“How’s it going?” Pansy asked gently, tucking the letter away (in the back of her mind knowing she should burn it).

“Fine, fine,” he replied, distantly. “Old spells are only complicated as they’re so archaic - it’s not actually out of any added complexity. The engagement ring should be ready and safe for you to wear for the party.”

Draco then gave a little smile- not to Pansy, but to the ring. It lightened his heavy face.

She felt sick with guilt. A red headed boy sent her some silly words that momentarily made her feel like she’d been saved, when really the one who needed saving was right in front of her. There were a hundred, hundred things that she had done in her life that she was not proud of, and a thousand sins more that were committed by those who she loved. Charlie could never know them simply because he could never understand. Whereas… She was Draco. They shared sins and understanding. Her hands may be dark with wrongdoing, but Draco would hold them nonetheless.

“We’ll look after each other, won’t we, Draco?”

He looked uncomfortable for a second, brow wrinkled. Her emotion uneased him. It was a large promise.

“Of course. Our demons play well together.”

 

* * *

 

 

A day later a Christmas present arrived.

It was inexpertly wrapped in scarlet paper. A jolly envelope had scrawled “Don’t open until 25th December” written tauntingly on it’s surface.

Pansy opened it immediately.

Inside was a very large book, old and pleasantly dusty. The covers creaked opened to reveal beautifully stylized words written on cream vellum, the gorgeous scent of libraries rising thickly from it’s pages. The front of the book bore a painting of a woman. The tendrils of her dark hair billowed in an unfelt wind underneath a fearsome helmet. Around her curved a dragon whose scales undulated in the light, flashing in violent red, orange and gold. The dragon’s reptilian eyes blinked and it’s nostrils flared with smoke. It was so large that it’s body and scales disappeared to form the rest of the cover so it looked like the book was a living, breathing beast.

The book was entitled “Dragon Tamer” and the woman looked a lot like Pansy, or at least how she hoped she looked.

The note accompanying it read:

 

_I knew you wouldn’t wait. Happy early Christmas._

            -C

 

She laughed, loving him just a little bit more- not because of the material gift, but for the feeling that accompanied it. Her toes tightened with a secret joy that the present she sent him, bought unknowing that it would be exchanged for another, was already on it’s way.

 

* * *

 

 

The Manor was ready.

After much cajoling she had forced both the house elf and Draco to lend a hand decorating. That is until she realized they both had terrible taste and would only do a passable job when under her dictator-esque supervision.

Black Christmas trees sparsely placed throughout the house glimmered with cold light and crystal adornments. Glass griffins and silver basilisks tastefully basked upon fireplaces and bannisters lit by small sprites who nestled in holly leaves. There were a few grotesque Malfoy family heirlooms that Pansy had had to hide on taste alone. After all, having everything engraved with snakes stops being gothic and starts being creepy rather quickly, especially when it comes to baubles.

Hands reached for her hipbones. Draco’s bony face skimmed by her own as he clasped her to him. He didn’t say anything, but there was something about his manner that seemed pleased. It must have been awhile since he had a true Christmas and a house filled with guests.

Pansy was satisfied with the result of her efforts- though it lacked the charm and warmth of her midnight feast for the wranglers. There was no fire and autumnal warmth here, only a majestic if cold beauty. It was the aesthetic she had always wanted yet she couldn’t help but miss the boisterous laughter and tongues of orange bonfire rising to the night sky.

“Ready?” whispered Draco, nerves almost perfectly hidden.

“Of course,” she replied, admiring their paired forms in the mirror. Draco a pale ghost, and she a shadow. The looked beautiful, weathly, proud and strong. Not happy. There were premature lines and shades on their face, one for every sorrow and lost loved one. Silently, they both counted the numbers of people who would not be there. The number was too large and the house echoed with their absence. She shivered.

Pansy excused herself, muttering about one or two last adjustments. All a lie, she was perfectly ready. Her eyes were lacquered dark, her body laced in black, and her lips redder than blood. It was as close to perfect as she’s ever imagined herself. The mirror-woman was the person she had always imagined with Draco; all cheekbones and cold humor. It wasn’t enough. She felt like her body was frozen and no warmth could reach her. A weird immaturity had inherited her mind, and she could hear the cruel words of her youth once again usurping her mouth and poisoning her thoughts. They spent hours critiquing their friends, and wishing illness on others. It was not a happy place to be, but it was the only script she had with Draco.

She fled to her room, grabbing a cup of tea and Charlie’s book. A last hour of comfort. She made a fort out of the curtains and knelt on the frosty window seat, losing her mind in a tale of ridiculous bravery and warrior princesses whose hearts and mouths were larger than their sense. It was a good book. Perhaps the best she had ever read. Each page she savoured.

A solemn knock broke her reverie. The party had begun.

 

* * *

 

It was almost Christmas, and all through the house, not a Slytherin was sober. Not even a mouse… by which Pansy had silently christened Malcolm Baddock, the sweet, nerdy child who she remembered had a liking for pumpkin pasties.

So many appeared at their door. Every one of them finding that a night with their old school mates was so much more preferable than spending an awkward silence or a violent argument with their families. They turned up elegant, clinking with bottles, exchanging welcome kisses as if the last time they had all been in the same room was not for a funeral, or Death Eater meeting, or to murder fellow school children. Peace was something Slytherins was surprisingly good at. On the surface there was forgiveness for those who ran and those who fought - no matter what side they were on. They all understood; you did what you had to in order to protect your own.

Pansy and Draco were on form. They laughed together, kissed, showed off the manor. They came together to joke and then dispersed, each loving the dilution of the other in this dark fashionable crowd of old friends.

“Pansy!” Cried Millicent, looming over to embrace her. “I hate to say it, but you look so well. Is it this new found wealth that suits you, or the break from dragons?”

“A bit of both, I think.” She replied, eye distracted by the ominous gleam on her hand. Draco’s emerald ring enclosed a finger on her right hand, she was not quite ready to put it on her wedding finger. Nor was she quite ready to trust it. Despite Draco’s assertions that it was quite safe, she kept expecting it to petrify her limb or freeze her solid.

“We’re so happy that you and Draco are together,” congratulated Theo, a shy smile stealing over his face as he looked at Millicent.

“Furious that you’re stealing our thunder,” corrected Milly. “But thrilled. It was always going to end up this way wasn’t it? All of us paired and bound. There’s no Draco without Pansy, and no Pansy without Draco.”

A dark glare stole across her face. She’d been without him for months, quite happily. She’s survived Hogwarts with and without him. Was her identity not sure enough on it’s own?

Luckily she was saved by a kiss on the cheek. She turned, and caught herself before her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Hello, my darling. You look as gorgeous and gothic as an avenging angel. And a fallen one, at that.”

“Blaise,” she cried, blindly leaping into his arms. “I didn’t think you’d come?”

“For you, love, I’d go anywhere… with an open bar. Speaking of which…”

They removed themselves from the engaged pair and drifted through the dancing throng. All around them people spilled champagne on fingertips and uneasy laughter from lips.

“With Draco. You. I don’t know if I’m proud or ashamed.”

“Not surprised by the sound of it. Or happy.”

“I’m happy if you’re happy. If you’re displeased, I’m murderous. I’m just afraid that you’re falling into old mistakes, so old that even our parents made them.” Blaise said, stroking her hair in that comforting way of his. His deep brown eyes were as reassuring and sharp as always.

“I do love him-“

“Let’s not get into that old debate about loving someone and being in love with someone. Also, you should be wiser than trusting something as fickle and blind as that.” He pointed at the center of her chest despairingly. “I love Firewhisky, but marrying it to my liver would probably be the death of me. Use that Slytherin brain, Parkinson.”

“The one that says he’s rich, well-bred, amusing, and so sinful that I could be as unpleasant as I like and still relatively have the high-ground in everything? …You’re right, that is a very different result.” Pansy replied sarcastically. “But please let’s not talk about it. I feel the past decade of my life has been about Draco, and I’m getting a little sick of the taste of his name in my mouth. Tell me about you. Tell me everything. You’ve written no letters and I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

Blaise’s eyebrows rose in elegant surprise. Pansy simply could not be bothered to discern what that look meant. Blaise, all perfect bone structure and an all perfect knowledge of Pansy. It made his presence a comfort and an unraveling. He was the only one here who could see past her painted smile. Either out of a desire to humour her or revel in himself, he failed to press his point.

“Me? There’s nothing that has happened to me that I’ve wanted to immortalize on paper. Writing it down would have made it too… real.”

She touched the back of his hand, and topped up his drink. “Where have you been, darling?”

“Europe. East. For a time with my Mother, before that became too unbearable. Living a louche life and doing unwise things. Surviving, as we all have.”

They observed the room. Everyone’s eyes were too wide, the laughter too sharp. There was an edge that hadn’t left them. They were meant to be predators, but a life of predation had led them to this. Sacrifices.

“We’re safe now,” Pansy whispered.

“It doesn’t feel that way sometimes though, does it?” Blaire replied. “I still dream about the Carrows. Still fear that a piece of evidence will unearth itself and lead my family to Azkaban. I worry that an awry insult from one of the militant innocent will lead to a stray curse. Accidents do happen… or can be made to happen.”

“It’s getting better.” Pansy tried to reassure. “People forgive. Don’t run. Come back. Live a life here despite them.”

“I’m not as strong as you are, love,” Blaise said with a sad smile, casting his eye to their few surviving friends. Malcolm was a flirting menace, Millicent and Theodore drunk on their own love, Draco pompous and laughing. The little ones (not so little anymore, and now legally allowed to drink) were happy. The kids Pansy had terrorized and looked after as a Prefect had all grown up, despite the danger of their teenage years. They had all skipped into the house with a hug and a smile for her, brimming with news and jokes more grown than they were.

“They’re all here, Pansy,” Blaise repeated to her earnestly, “because of you. You got us through the Carrows, through Snape’s flickering loyalty, through the war. It’s a debt all of them can only repay you with loyalty.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied. She was happy to see them all there. Yet the shapes of those not present still haunted her. A forced smile came to her lips. “You’ve become so serious all of a sudden. What’s the point of surviving if we have to dwell about it? Come on- have another drink and then kiss me so Draco gets jealous-“

Another knock at the door stole her from her friend. Passing old school contempories, drinking and laughing and forgetting, she wondered whether she should tell Blaise about Charlie.

What would she say? She has a strange red headed friend whose family would despise her, who liked dragons far more than was warranted, who was weird and earnest and kind, who sent her brilliant books and taught her to cook , and made faces at her while she wrote essays, and _who missed her_.

Like guilt summoning the devil, Draco came out of the ether all sharp suited and sweet-cologned. He took her hand and spun her round, wicked laugh in her ear, happiness a welcome stranger on his face.

“This is perfect,” he whispered before disappearing off again.

Conflict echoed in her, the world brighter and darker once more. Perhaps not then. Perhaps Charlie should stay were he was- safe in the Burrow, locked in her silence.

She opened the door and saw a ghost.

 

 

Little Astoria Greengrass.


	20. Chapter 20

Astoria stood there in the cold, slightly awkward.

She looked so much like her sister, Daphne, that it almost stopped Pansy’s heart. They both had peridot eyes, a mix of summer and snake green. Their skin was pale and had the lightest dusting of freckles across slanted cheekbones and high foreheads. The only difference was that Astoria was even prettier than the devastatingly beautiful Daphne. This startling beauty was not immediately obvious and it took Pansy a moment to work out why.

Astoria’s eyes were wide and lips narrowed with what initially looked like seriousness, but in fact more resembled worry. Her blond curls were pulled back into a harsh pony-tail. The only miniscule element of makeup was the delicate edging on her eyes in the colours of smoke and mist.

She was a girl trying to cover herself in winter, however much the summer of her youth shone through.

Before Astoria opened her mouth to speak Pansy cut off whatever she was going to say and enveloped her in a fearsome hug. For a second Astoria was stiff as steel, unthawed in Pansy’s embrace, then after a moment her arms softened and wrapped around Pansy.

“I’m so glad you came, Ria. Welcome.”

Astoria’s lips, petal-pink, softened into a smile.

“Me too. I was a little worried about what kind of reception I’d receive.”

Pansy, never afraid to be blunt, replied: “Because Daphne chose the right side of the war in the Battle of Hogwarts? Because she did the right thing, unlike so many of us? No, Ria. This house is filled with the brave and the fainthearted, from both sides. The war made us fools and cowards, and if we can’t look past that then no one else will. We love Daphne and miss her dearly. You’ll always be welcome among us. ”

Astroria visibly chilled, and Pansy cursed the gin in her blood for making her words more inarticulate and ingenuous than she meant.

“Well, quite.” Astoria said.

“Let’s get you a drink,” uttered Pansy swiftly, kicking herself for mentioning Astoria’s dead sister before she had even _crossed the threshold_ of the house. Pansy was so used to having cathartic, post-war conversations that she completely forgot social etiquette. By Merlin, what idiocy.

“May be I can help with that,” drawled Malcolm Baddock, looking less like a louche and more like a limpet as he leant unstably against the wall. He passed Astoria a clear liquid, which Pansy did not blame her for accepting and swiftly downing. _Hey, welcome to the party. Let’s talk about your murdered sister shall we?_

Almost immediately after Astoria entered the manor, alarm bells started to ring in Pansy’s mind. Malcolm was looking at her in a way a malnourished lion contemplates a plump meal.

Pansy was reasonably sure that Astoria would have more sense than to demean herself to Malcolm Baddock, whose robes look like they had a distressing vomit stain already. However, she was so alone and so young that Pansy was going to ensure that she would not be pestered with males who were beneath her. Or males full stop. The young girl who Draco and she had helped with her Arithmancy homework was not going to become prey to adolescent drooling. Not if Pansy had anything to do with it.

Pansy beckoned Astoria to the living room, reasonably sure that Malcolm would fall flat on his face if he left the safety and stability of that portion of wall. On the way, she surreptitiously diluted Astoria’s second drink and drifted them over to Blaise, whose tastes did not run to nubile young girls.

Blaise was nursing a firewhisky and his head was lolling dreamily to the music. At Pansy’s return, he smiled.

“Thank Merlin, your back. I just disentangled myself from the dullest conversation with Roger Wellington. He was telling me all about this satirical piece he’s writing for the Prophet about Voldemort’s rise. Sounds very witty and very much like he’s brown-nosing. Oh, ole Voldey’s evil? You don’t say!”

Pansy shot him a warning glance. Blaise and she were so fluent in each other that he immediately got the message right around the same time he realized who Astoria Greengrass was. Blaise was less familiar with the younger Slytherins than the prefects had been, especially if they were quiet and female, but Daphne and Astoria’s similarity was shocking.

“Hello, darling. You’re looking glorious,” Blaise kissed her on both cheeks but Astoria just glanced back coldly. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you.”

After a pregnant silence, Pansy realised that the conversation wasn’t going to blossom from there.

“Yes, Roger was telling me about that piece.” She said to make up for Ria’s quietness. “He seemed quite ignorant of the fact he was entirely plagiarizing that parody debate we used to have in the common room about the moral responsibility of Glinda the White Witch.”

“Little harlot. It quite shocks me how flexible and forgetful we’ve all become. I tried to make a move on him, purely out of politeness and to stop his insipid droning, and the boy had the indecency to be shocked! It’s as if he had completely forgotten his bout of experimenting in sixth year.”

Astoria looked uncharmed. Glancing round to those swaying to the sounds of the Wireless, she said: “I’ve never heard any of this music. What is this, Pansy?”

“A bit of Arctic Monkeys, some Lana Del Ray. Muggle music mostly – I know, rather self-consciously modern. Draco’s been toying with the Wireless to get the extra channels. And on that note, do excuse me…”

Pansy mouthed “look after her” to Blaise as he topped up his glass.

Draco was looking at the dancers and had caught Pansy’s gaze across the room. His shirt was loosened at the neck and there was a hazy look of relaxation on his face. He quirked an eyebrow at Pansy, an invitation.

She swam through the bodies to him, taking his hand and leading them to the middle of the floor where people were dancing. He always did have a weakness for music. Palms slid to her waist drawing her closer, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her smile answering his. Perhaps their interests did not truly match, perhaps he would nod off when she talked about dragons and she would yawn when his rants went too old-fashioned. But their dancing was always in tune. They could always read and answer each other’s movements effortlessly.

“Reminds me of all those nights dancing in that little club at the basement of Three Broomsticks,” Draco whispered to her.

“That place was so grimy. Why did we go there?”

“Because it was my haven from the Gryffindors. Do you know how many people I had to bribe to make sure no one told them it existed?”

“Probably more than you needed to. I can’t really imagine that group out drinking and dancing underage, can you?”

Draco smiled. “The picture of Ron Weasley holding a Fey Glowstick and rampaging on a dance floor fills me with disgust and joy. Though I imagine the screams of horror would rather drown out the music.”

Pansy did not want to reply to this. A dozen insults leapt to her tongue, making her mouth feel like ash. She didn’t want to talk about those people or criticize them. She couldn’t imagine they would be wasting their breath on Draco and her.

“Are you happy, Draco?” she asked instead.

“My, you’re full of a lot of these questions aren’t you?”

“Are you?”

“You’re looking very thin at the moment. Everyone’s been mentioning it.” Draco caught the dangerous gleam in her eye and changed tact. “My mood has been…. lighter than I’ve felt in a long time. Thank you, Pansy.”

It was not the kind of answer she was looking for. She wasn’t looking for a thank you. She tried to ignore the fact he did not return the question.

In the corner of her eye, she noticed that Markus was making labored conversation with Astoria, who was looking increasingly uncomfortable at his bovine charm.

“Do me a favour – Astoria, Daphne’s sister, is here and needs a bit of looking after. Would you mind going to chat to her?”

“Ria Greengrass?” Draco’s silver eyes suddenly went wide with fear. “But Daphne fought on the other side – the last person Ria would want to talk to is me.”

In his voice was a plea. Don’t make me do it. Don’t make the guilt surface.

“You know Ria. Merlin, we spent enough time bullying that year group into working. You’re probably one of the only faces she knows well here. And you owe it to Daphne. Astoria’s not here with an axe to grind. Be kind. It’s must be unspeakable to lose a sister. We need to let her know she hasn’t lost the Slytherins as well.”

Draco nodded, looking sick, eyes drifting to the blond girl in white lace. Pansy took his chin gently in her fingers.

“Just make her feel welcome. Tell a couple of jokes, you charming cad. Only for a little while. I’ll make it worth your while once everyone has gone home.”

Pansy leant forward, enclosing his bottom lip in a kiss, which she deepened with pleasure. There she was, kissing Draco Malfoy in front of all the Slytherins. Claiming him as her own. Teenage Pansy starting doing backflips inside her brain.

“Fine,” Draco said, pouting slightly. “Come save me soon.”

Come save me. Just what Charlie had said in his letter. Pansy’s stomach tightened. There was someone she wanted to save, and another who actually needed saving. She supposed that made the choice easier.

Blaise appeared next to her. “Turn about the manor, my love? A chance to inspect the estate?”

She gave him a dark eyed glare, following him into the corridor. “You were meant to be looking after Ria. I leave you for five minutes and Markus is trying to paw at her.”

“I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. I belong in the fifth circle of hell with the debauchers and those who abandon _frankly boring_ people at parties.”

“She’s shy!“

“She’s bloody hard work. Now tell me how expensive this ghastly statue of Demeter Malfoy is and have another glass of champagne. It will make you feel better.”

She was about to come back with a cutting remark before a hulking figure came into sight. It was a new arrival to the party. The silhouette, so unmistakable to both of them, shifted his cloak off and wandered around for somewhere to put it. Blaise and Pansy stopped dead in their tracks. It felt like ice had been poured down her spine.

“Did you know he was coming?” asked Blaise, his words sounding weirdly emotionless as if they were coming from far away.

Fury felt like it thickened her tongue, yet when she answered her voice cut the air with it’s force. “No. Never. I would never have allowed him here.”

Pansy’s thoughts became rapid with anger. “Go to the other room and make sure no one comes to the dining room. I need to deal with this gatecrasher.”

Blaise nodded sternly and departed.

Pansy slipped her wand from her sleeve and strode toward the intruder. Without giving him a chance to speak, only a chance to take in her furious face and raised wand, she uttered “Expelliarmus!” The force of the spell projecting him into the dining room and flinging his wand into a rogue corner.

She followed his crumpled form into the room, slamming the door behind her, heart-thumping with fear as she saw his thuggish body attempt to right itself.

“Goyle, if you dare get up I will use this wand to permanently damage you. You will wish you had never been born, let alone considered coming to this house. Showing your face here. To people you used dark magic on. How _dare you_.” Pansy realized she was spitting as she spoke. The anger made her limbs shake, but her voice stayed steady.

Watery blue eyes in a large face looked at her with reproach. He did not move. “Pansy, Draco invited me.” Goyle spoke slowly, in a way that Pansy used to find endearing, like he was taking care choosing his words.

Slowly the door opened behind her, and she turned to face it her wand raised to the intruder’s head.

Draco looked at her calmly. “Pansy, is this necessary?”

“You invited this monster.”

“Yes. He’s my friend. One of the last.”

She could not tell if he looked annoyed with her or if he was trying to plead. A movement shifted to the corner of her eye – Goyle, the fool, thought his old master’s words would save him. Thought that this was permission to move.

Her wand hand whipped toward him and she cried “Incarcero!” Snakelike ropes spun from the end of her wand and locked around Goyle’s wrists, ankles, legs and throat. Goyle remained there, wobbling, one fell movement meaning he would topple.

“I cannot believe you invited him here. He allowed Crabbe to torture students – sometimes Slytherins! Not that that matters who it was. They were all children. You weren’t there during the last year. You don’t understand the disgusting things those two did or condoned. There were measures I had to take to protect us…” The memory of the Carrow’s hands on her was suddenly vivid. She shuddered, her words stopping. She would never share that story with Draco. She wouldn’t utter it in front of Goyle, though he knew it already.

“We all condoned things we shouldn’t have, Pans,” Draco said gently. “Goyle is one of the few who understands what happened that year. Can’t we… Can’t he be here? Can’t he stay with the rest of us? Can’t you forgive him like you forgive me?”

Pansy looked at Draco. The unsaid thing was that during Voldemort’s rise, Draco had probably been involved in worse things than Goyle. Like Goyle, his sin was due to inactivity, passively in allowing these terrible things to happen. Hypocritically, Pansy found Draco so easy to forgive because those sins were theoretical. She did not see them happen and did not necessarily have proof that they did happen. Thinking like this was less easy now having met and befriended more of the victims of this war, yet her forgiveness (or purposeful ignorance) existed more for Draco than Goyle.

In fact, it was so hard knowing what pain the Death Eaters had caused Charlie and Luna and their families that some days she wondered if she could bear it. She loved Draco. Yet she was coming to realise that she did not wholly forgive him. She endured him and his cruelty and allowed his terrible past and his imperfect future because of love. Why else had she really sent him to speak to Astoria? Because she wanted the reality of what he had done to hit home. She did not agree with his words like she had in the past. She also saw how no amount of challenging on her part would change him. She could only make him hate himself less.

“No. Never. He is a traitor, a torturer, and… I will not let him exist here, Draco.”

Goyle looked at them pleadingly, unable to speak with the ropes in his mouth.

“You know as well as me it was Crabbe who was responsib-“ began Malfoy.

“I DON’T CARE. I need him out of my sight! No one here wants him.”

There was a change in Draco’s face that Pansy did not quite understand. She regretted shouting. A wiser person would not have done so. A wiser person would improve their argument, but the passion in Pansy overruled any logic.

“He doesn’t have anyone at home. All the Goyles are in Azkaban, and he couldn’t get clearance to see them. It’s just him. Like it would have been just you or just me if we had stayed at home for Christmas-“

“If you say one more word, Draco, I swear…”

“Half the people here have some form of blood on their hands-“

Something in Pansy broke, like glass shattering. Her wand ignited the fireplace throwing tongues of orange flame so high they scorched the wallpaper. With one hand she grabbed a black urn from the sideboard and cast it into the fire, alchemizing the blaze into a bright, greedy emerald. Using all her weight, she fell into Goyle, tipping his heft into the fire. As the figure fell, she shouted: “GO BACK TO WHEREVER YOU CAME FROM.”

Sparks flew out, spewing everywhere. Goyle’s body spun nauseatingly before disappearing with a crack into the ether.

The flames settled, returning to a calm, gentle orange. Pansy breathed, feeling unreal, not caring where Goyle had ended up.

“I find it strange,” said Draco quietly, “Why is it that you make me kind, when I only make you cruel?”

A click of the door announced his departure.


	21. Chapter 21

The air rang with Draco’s quiet words.

“Why is it that you make me kind, when I only make you cruel?”

The flames settled in the fireplace, losing their emerald tempestuousness and receding to a humble, thoughtful orange. Pansy picked up Goyle’s wand from where it had been displaced in the corner of the room. She held the crude bit of wood between her palms and contemplated breaking it over her knee or thrusting it into the fire as she had done it’s owner.

Am I cruel?

It had never been something she had feared before. If anything, it was something she had accepted about herself, justifying it as a necessity in an unfair, heartless world. She was cruel to protect herself and her loved ones, and in that way she had hoped it eradicated itself. A selfless cruelty. But perhaps that was not the case.

It was true she did not guard her tongue around Draco. Criticisms of others spilled from her lips. And it was also true that there was an element of politics in this party she had thrown. It was good to give Draco company, and it was good to see her friends… but it was also necessary to reconsolidate their power. If Draco and she were going to be a strong couple and have a strong family, they needed their old allies back. They needed a group of Slytherins to base a network in. Out there, people were drinking and laughing and healing old wounds… Pansy could not quite see whether this action was more selfish or selfless. Surely there was no cruelty in it?

As for Goyle. Yes, that was heartless. But again that was to protect herself and others. She would not let the young ones look upon the face of their torturer.

Draco was half right. Not in that he made her cruel, but that he permitted her cruelty, even when he did not agree with it. Quite in the way she did him. Draco had few close friends. There had been a genuine… if not affection, bond between he, Crabbe and Goyle. She would happily sacrifice that friendship to spare the others. Crabbe was the monster, but it was Goyle who should have been the one to stop him. Pansy had tried, and Draco… had abandoned them.

How terrible they were together. How truly wrong he was to think that she made him kind.

Pansy glanced at her reflection, a stone ghost in the mirror. She looked beautiful and cold and fearsome. For once, she hated it.

The wand felt like a callous in her hand. She would not break it or burn it. It would be dangerously foolish. Carefully, she placed it on the side where Draco could retrieve it later.

Instead of returning to the room where the guests were progressively making themselves evermore infused with alcohol, she roamed the manor. It was likely many of the visitors would stay longer than a night, perhaps a week. Families at Christmas were not always pleasant things to return to, so she made sure the countless spare rooms had beds made, each with a crystal chalice of water and hangover draft which she had handmade the day before.

She had spent many summers and a handful of winters at Malfoy manor. Each visit a happy and an unhappy one, each filled with a want so grand it filled her entirely. She had desired Draco and this life style and feeling she was needed.

This unending want had made her weep bitter tears for it’s sheer impossibility. Draco’s moods were too changing and she too wanting to ever live up to being the Lady of Malfoy Manor.

Now she had it all in her grasp. Yet the Pansy who was so sure in herself and her desire for this place was gone. She felt like she was a charcoal drawing of the girl she once was, blurred through time.

Gradually she came across Draco’s room (she could not yet think of it as her own) and her feet and fingers found themselves at Charlie’s present. The novel was weighty in her hands and had that calming, woody, gorgeous smell of old books; an amalgamation of leather, candle-smoke and safety.

The Dragon Princess on the cover, who looked so much like she did, stared impassively back. Her face was expressionless, but not unhappy. The woman looked so sure of who she was, just as Pansy felt when her arms were aching after working with the dragons, or from a day scouring over books in the library, or laughing with the wranglers in the mountains.

She missed them; those mad dragon people, paradoxical Gryffindors and eccentric academics. A foolish part wished they were here. Accepting this life with Draco meant bidding adieu to them. It did not quite seem like a fair exchange, for either.

For once she decided to take her mother’s advice. Staring at herself in the silver mirror she changed her troubled features into what looked like a sickening grin. Again, she practiced, again and again, until the smile seemed almost sincere.

There. The lie was arranged perfectly on her face. She was ready.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

There was a polite knock at the door – which instantly indicated it was not Draco, who would never demean himself to knock in his own house.

Pansy turned her perfectly schooled face toward the sound. Theo leant there, elegant in a grey suit which accentuated his height and striking tan skin. All the Nott family possessed the same soil-brown eyes, golden skin and hair that was just a few shades darker.

“Miss Parkinson.”

“Mr Nott.”

She remained slightly watchful. Theo had always been a quiet one in the common room and was not someone that she knew terribly well except for what she had heard through Millicent. He was a keen Ballycastle Bats supporter, suffered from migraines, had a surprise fondness for muggle indie pop (which he shared with Millicent)… and his father was one of the bloodiest killers in Voldemort’s reign.

“… Would you forgive me if I ask if whether you were alright?” he asked, perceptively.

“Obviously not, _Nott_ ,” Pansy replied, feigning to fix her hair, and using the crutch of old jokes.

“Well, I’ll get straight to the point then... Thank you.”

“For the party? Oh, it’s nothing. It’s more to entertain Draco than anything else. You know what a pathetic recluse he’s been of late. Such self-indulgent misery. “

Her words were so harsh. They shouldn’t be. Draco wanted to marry her, but she could not quite hide her current disgust. It was not even disgust with him. It was herself. What was happening to her?

“Well, he’s in true Draco form at the moment-“

“Desperate to be liked and being a repugnant show off?”

Theo laughed. “That’s it. Forgive me for saying, but Draco’s desire to be so unanimously liked has always amused me when he has an utter inability to be likeable.”

Despite herself, Pansy cackled. “You not such a fan of the poor, delinquent rich boy?”

“That’s the point. I am. I’m very fond of him. Not to the extent where I’d want him to be my best friend, but he’d be a very tolerable dinner party companion. And you know… There’s that shared Slytherin history we all have. I suppose I partly find him annoying because on the surface we’re relatively similar – rich, pureblood boys with morally repugnant families.

“Which brings me,” Theo sighed. “Back to my thank you. It’s not for the party – it’s for the legal advice. It looks like my father’s sentence won’t be as long as it was looking like six months ago. I’m very grateful, Pansy. My father is not a man I am best fond of, but… I’m glad he won’t die in prison. I suppose that makes me rather terrible?”

“Not at all,” Pansy said softly.

“The death threats don’t agree,” he replied with a sad smile. “Have you received any? We were just discussing it downstairs. Even some of the innocent have got a couple. Everyone’s got a rather grand amount of bravado about it. It’s been almost unanimously agreed that it’s quite the embarrassment if you haven’t received one – don’t tell Millie about it though. She worries enough about everyone already.”

False cheer dropped from Pansy’s face like a stone down a well. “Has Millicent received one?”

“Yes, but I destroyed it before she saw– sorry, I probably shouldn’t be off-loading this onto you. There’s not many people downstairs I can tell this to.”

Pansy gave him a Mona Lisa smile. She was glad he felt comfortable to tell her these things, but a tiny part of her rankled. Always, always, people thought it fine to hide their secrets in her. It was better this way than any other, yet often they were horrible secrets. Things she would have to fix or personal ordeals she would have preferred not to know. Sometimes she felt like a diary people hid their horrors in.

Truthfully, she replied; “I’m glad you feel comfortable to tell me.”

“Then I hope you won’t hate me for asking this…” His face coloured. “I hate it when people ask me this. My family does it constantly. Even when people are silent, I can see it I their looks. ‘Why,’ ” he gulped, a closed fist the only indication of his consuming anger, “ ‘are you with Millie?’.“

“What an _idiotic question_. She’s one of the funniest, kindest-“ burst Pansy.

“I know, I know… It’s why I hate myself for asking – _but_ _why Draco_?” His gaze was so piercing that it ran through her and strangely made her aware that he had avoided looking directly at her up until then.

“What do you mean?” She said in words that truly meant _how dare you_. Everything shut down inside.

“Blaise told us what had just happened with Goyle, not to mention the years of-“

“Hello!” sang Millicent brightly, making it abjectly aware that she had heard a good portion of the conversation. “How are we all?”

“Fine. I think.” Pansy replied, glaring. It was her default expression, but this time had an extra edge to it.

“Hello, love,” said Theo, eyes softening. He took breath. “In the spirit of honesty, I should probably admit that I was asking Pansy why on earth she was running herself through the mill to be with Draco. Again. Probably not the wisest of moves. I may have signed my own death warrant.”

“Possibly,” she replied with a brittle smile.

Millicent leaned in and stole a kiss from him, ignoring the ice in the room. “Isn’t it obvious? They love each other. Like that muggle book we all illicitly read – they’re Heathcliff and Catherine. Though I don’t know which is which. Possibly they’re both?”

“If I ever run around the rose garden shouting ‘I AM DRACO,’ send me immediately to St Mungo’s.”

“Who are we then?” Theo replied, hand naturally finding the curve of Millicent’s back.

“No one tragic, I hope.”

“See that’s my point. There’s nothing romantic about tragedy – no offense, Pans.”

Millicent rolled her eyes, despairing. “You quite the traditionalist, Theo. They’re perfect together.”

“If you are, please forget I ever said anything, Pansy – you as well, _Mrs-Nott-to-be._ It’s just, you seem very well at the moment –Romanian air obviously suits you- and Draco…” Theo’s face clouded. “Ignore me. Only a fool would know Pansy Parkinson better than herself.”

“Too true!” cheered Millicent. Noticing Pansy’s unease, she added. “Shall we meet you downstairs?”

Once the pair had left, Pansy gave an involuntary shudder. Theo’s perceptiveness was uncomfortable. She was not sure she would have echoed any of her thoughts to Millicent or Blaise. After so many years of wanting Draco, the thought that she may not was almost an embarrassment. The fact that Theo could see it so easily through her sickly sweet smiles and carefully carefree conversation was unsettling. He did come from a family of liars after all. Perhaps falsehoods meant little to him now.

It wasn’t that she did not want Draco. They were just different people now. When it was so easy to relax into each other’s sins, there was no need for either to be better than they had the capability to be.

 

* * *

 

Charlie watched the clock tick.

After learning more of the less pleasant home life of his close friend, Charlie was taking pains to appreciate the Weasley home while he was here. In part this was easy – he did miss his Mother’s caring nature and his Father’s amiable conversation. It was the unusual silence of the house that spooked him, which made the absences gnaw. Every single other Weasley was planning to arrive at the Burrow on Christmas day, and not a moment sooner. Leaving him and the tick of the clock.

Or to be more precise, he and his Mother’s worrying and Father’s meandering muggle-talk _and_ the tick of the clock. Three days had been lovely. Three days had been his limit.

He had done everything he could think of to keep busy. He’d even written _letters_ , quite an un-Charlie activity. Five abandoned ones lay beneath his desk, all addressed to one person, all rejected for their frequency and aimless content. Chores had been done repeatedly, conversations had been had with his parents ad finitum (often the same conversation again and again). Even his Christmas presents had been twice wrapped. And yet… and yet…

Nothing had tried to kill him and it was driving him insane.

He felt like he’d been put out to pasture, limbs and mind softening. What he wouldn’t give for a close encounter with a dragon or a harsh word from Pansy or – _What?_

What a terribly strange thing to miss. Though to be honest, thought Charlie staring at the clock as it struck 7pm (his parents doing the dishes between them, not letting their rarely seen son get up to help), even if Pansy was not quite the same as facing a dragon, at least she tested him mentally. All conversation with her felt like a literal battle of wits, as if he were walking on tight ropes or knives – but how he craved it!

For once, all the numerous comments about Charlie being slightly unusual suddenly made sense to him. Pushing that thought back, he flicked through his memories of the past few months, reliving some of their conversations, some of her mad turns of phrase and weird ways. Trying to grasp some of that Pansy-ness, as if trying to evoke her in the present, to summon her here if he could.

“Charlie, what are you sniggering at?” Molly asked from the sink, the snickering interrupting her solo verse of Celestina Warbeck’s Christmas classic _I’m a Mistletoe Missing You_. (The lyrics don’t make much sense either and seem to tell the story of a sentient plant with boundary issues).

“Just thinking of sausages.”

Molly and Arthur exchanged a glance. Wondering whether Charlie was concussed was an inadvertent pass time for them both. 

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy was bothered by Theo’s comments. Not so much by their content… but why now? Draco’s behaviour had been questionable for years – since day one, in fact. Why was Theo worrying about her now?

Looking at the table cluttered with Firewhisky, Goblin wine, Fairy spirit and an innocuous bottle of Archers (muggle things were so _in_ right now), Pansy decided to go for the water. She felt remarkably clear headed. The evening had been… sobering.

Everyone looked like they were having a good time. Well, they looked like a typical group of people at a party. Somebody in the corner was upset and being responsibly comforted by her friends. Baddock had passed out in the corner cradling his shoes and Marcus was in a fierce dance off with some old Slytherin goalie.

Draco…

Where was Draco?

He should be easy to spot; anemic-looking with skin a ridiculous shade of moonlight, like some formulaic romantic hero. A slight sick feeling took her as her eyes failed to see him.

Then- like a hook her gaze caught.

Draco was talking to Astoria Greengrass.

Draco was _still_ talking to Astoria Greengrass, after she had instructed him to hours ago.

They were quite in plain sight, though separate from everyone else, gathered in an intimate conversation that created a wordless privacy separating them from the crowd. Pansy had not recognized Draco. He looked different. Sneer gone. Smiling?

She had never seen that look on Draco’s face. He was enraptured. Eager to please. Afraid. A wide eyed amazement.

Even Astoria was thawing, an almost smile hinting from her lips.

From where she stood, Pansy could recognize the typical movements of a Draco Impression, all as precise as they had been at school, his sharp jokes prodding laughs from Astoria. Gone was the boy who lingered here alone. Here was a Draco who was familiar and alien, happy and trying to impress.

He would never be like this with me, she thought. Even as he glanced over at her, a ghost of guilt and anger crossed his features and was gone. Promptly, he looked away, engaging and laughing even more than he had. There was no punishment like silent anger and private jokes. Astoria and he seemed to be doing very well at that – a hand was on the small of her back and a blush tinged Draco’s cheeks as Astoria leaned in to whisper a joke.

Despite Pansy’s complex of feelings, it still felt like a punch to the gut. She had thought herself the only one who could save Draco from himself, the only one who would bear to be around him.

Astoria thought she hid her attraction from him well, her smiles composed and laughter fleeting… Pansy could clearly see she was entranced. Eyes glittered, smile unexpected.

And that was the end of that.

“I’ve always thought parties were strange things,” Blaise said in her ear. Pansy stayed frozen and staring at the pair. They looked lovely, candlelight reflecting on their skin, a mirror of pureblood perfection utterly ignorant of the rest of the room. It was as if there was another light igniting them from within. Conversation flowed like song from their lips and looks were exchanged like chaste, careful kisses.

“Events that could take months to unfold in the real world, can take hours to solve at a party over a glass of champagne. I, for one, just got lucky with someone I’d had my eye on since sixth year (so long ago it’s _practically_ an embarrassment now). Millicent and Theo have just had their first lovers tiff, all solved in twenty minutes so they’re back to being disgustingly loved-up. And you, my devastating Pansy, look like you’ve made a decision.”

“It’s a good decision,” Pansy replied. She lifted her fingers to her lips – there was a strange, sad smile on her face. Relief and melancholy aching through her bones. “I’ve never believed in true love, or love at first sigh-“ Something choked in her throat.

“But you know Draco well enough to see it,” Blaise said in a low voice, his eyes kind. “He loves you Pansy, in his own selfish way. The boy is loyal, I’ll tell you that. He could be completely entranced by this slip of a thing but he’d never stray from you-“

“-Which is why I have to do it. This is going to sound strange, Blaise… it may even sound like I’m defending my honour. (The little of it I have anyway…) I think my decision had already been made. I was just scared he’d be alone. Rather foolishly I thought I was the only one strong and stupid enough to still care for him.”

Her friend drew her to him, kissed her forehead and whispered with a laugh in his throat. “Your narcissism never fails to impress me.”

Blaise, smart-suited and looking slightly broken himself, held her arms in his hands and looked at her. “It’s in my opinion you were always the best of us-“

“Oh, shut up.” Up until now she’d managed to keep the tears at bay. It was a good decision, not necessarily a happy one.

“No, listen to me. Dangerous and wise, Pansy Parkinson, is the hero the Slytherins deserved. No history books will write about what you did for us in seventh year and some of your closest friends may never know.” Blaise gave a harsh look toward Malfoy. “The ones who matter do. And the ones who matter know you are far to good for that inbred.”

“You,” Pansy replied, flustering under a blush, “are drunk.”

“I am always drunk,” came the proud reply. “Doesn’t mean I’m a liar. _In vino veritas_ , after all.”

“Are you alright?” Pansy asked, looking at the uneasy look in his eye. “Will you stay here?”

“I am much better than I’ve been in months, believe it or not. It’s been good seeing this lot. It’s been good seeing actual people. Though I’ll be better once you’ve got this out the way. Yes, I’ll stay.” Perceptively, he added. “ Even if you don’t.”

Pansy, overwhelmed, kissed him on the cheek.

“Don’t tell Draco I’ve gone, not till I’m truly gone and it’s too late.”


	22. Chapter 22

A silence sneaking around her shoulders hinted to Pansy she was not alone.

She had been stuck in a rhythm. Socks, shoes, books, dissertation notes. Her wand waved too and fro, clinically collecting perfume bottles and casting clothes into her suitcase. Never had she packed so neatly. The clarity in her mind seemed to aid the game of tetris flying through the air, packing possession after possession, sharp fold against sharp fold.

She should have known there would be no secret getaway.

Draco leaned against the door nonchalantly, anger crisp on his face. He was slightly disheveled around the collar and the piercing gaze he gave Pansy hid his inebriation well. Her eyes scattered away when she looked at him; there was no evading the fury gripping his jaw and tightening the muscles in his spine.

The pale scar snaking up his throat was visible, a rare sight. Draco was usually so careful to conceal it. Only Pansy, Potter and Snape knew where the wound started and how it slipped down his body, gruesome in it’s length, and ended far too far from where it began. It’s source was beneath his jugular, nicking the column of his throat then crossing his collarbone and ending, cruelly, above the lower ribs on the opposite side. _Sectum Sempra_. As if Potter had tried to cross him out of existence.

Before the sun had set that previous night, Pansy had kissed that scar and thought of war wounds and burns and lost limbs… and how lucky she and Draco had been.

“I was about to say this is unusual,” muttered Draco coolly, “sneaking out like a thief in the night. But it’s not, is it? It’s a typical Parkinson tantrum. I thought we’d got beyond such screaming infantilism.”

Pansy considered what she could say. ‘ _It’s not like that’_ sprung to her throat and choked there. Indignant shouts, tears, fierce debate…. That’s the typical Parkinson response. She could feel the words and screams forming in her stomach. They were all correct. They were all her. But they were not the words she chose to use now. Draco looked like he had been betrayed and she had not even left yet. A strange paradoxical relief claimed her as her eyes remained dry and mind remained clear. She felt sick but sure.

“I was going to write you a letter – rude, I realize, insufficient – however, it was the only way I could think to express myself plainly. I need to explain… I’m just scared I won’t do either of us a service-“

“ _Oh, I can’t wait to hear this_ ,” he hissed. “Storming out during your own party – and why? Sulking that I invited my friend? Jealous that I spoke to someone other than you – _who you told me to speak to_? Or is it some other imagined slight? I know you, Parkinson. You’ll pout for a day and be fine. Let’s not have the dramatics. ”

Pansy glared at him impassively.

“You do know me, just as I know you, Malfoy.” If he wanted to reduce them to patronizing schoolboy last names, fine. For once, Pansy’s voice stayed calm- almost kind. “Any other time you wouldn’t have let me eject Goyle from the house – your house. Any other time you would not even have admitted to looking at another girl even if the evidence, and more, was plain to both of us. Any other time you would have let me scream and run while you said nothing and did nothing. You know something is different, that something with us is fundamentally wrong for you to even be here, being angry, and trying to stop me.”

That stilled his tongue, though his face remained immovable.

“I need to go, Draco, and we need to stop this.”

“Stop what?” There was a hint of a naïve plea in his voice that made Pansy’s heart swing sickeningly.

“I… I love you. I’ll always love you… You’re quick, ambitious, attention-seeking, an utter childish pain, and my best friend. Together I honestly think we could conquer the world - if liquor and distractions didn’t get in the way.” She let out a little hiccupping laugh. “You’re almost my other self, which speaks vastly of my own narcissism. The way you behave _could_ be me. And I can’t help but accept the fact you will put yourself above everyone, thinking only of you and your own. I love the self-preserving coward in you. And I love how kindness and goodness can slip out the cracks, despite yourself. I even accept the evil in you. How fear and cowardliness could drive you to attempt murder. How loyalty could lead you to lock up innocents in the basement. How cruelty could lead you to… much worse.”

Draco stilled, as if he was petrifying before her.

“And-and, this is the crux of the matter, I almost love you _more_ for these offenses. I love the fact you risked others to save your own skin, because honestly Draco, I would hate to live in a world that you were not a part of.

“This is why we’re a madness. A tragedy. We condone the worst in each other. We feel we have nothing to prove or improve because we accept each other totally, toxically. I never thought such acceptance could be so poisonous. I think…. I think it would be better if we felt like we had to be better people… whether for ourselves or others. I love you, but being in love with you is making me loathe myself-“

A choke, a growl, a laugh – Pansy was not quite sure – thrust from Draco’s throat and he slammed his bedroom door shut behind him. The sound made her jump but suddenly he was upon her, hands in her hair, forehead on her forehead, a kiss bitten from her lips.

“ _Don’t_. Don’t. I’ll be better if you want me to be better. I’ll never see Goyle again. I’ll never look at her- that girl - _Astoria_. I’ll look after you and you’ll look after me. I can’t trust anyone else. I can’t be alone with anyone else. And the marriage – it will keep you safe- think, Pansy, love… You can make sure we donate to mudblood charities or something.”

Despite herself, a laugh escaped her throat. Still there were no tears. She felt entirely resolute. Rarely had she been so sure of anything. So sure of what Draco wanted, so sure of what she was going to do. It was if her actions were engraved in stone. The play had been written and she was just going through the motions. Her body didn’t quite seem to agree though and her limbs shook like branches in the wind.

Even though Draco looked so sharply distraught, even though his fingers pressed bruises on her neck, she drank in the last few moments of intimacy. Grey eyes with deep green circles looked at her with severe hurt and confusion. The boy may be problematic, but Pansy had to admit, he was pretty in that unfortunate aristocratic way she had a weakness for. Horribly pretty, and in this moment, horribly hers.

“ See,” Draco said with a forced smile that manipulated in all the right ways “We can’t even break up without making each other laugh. And you’re the only one I’d let make such a damp, weeping mess of my bedroom… then again you are the only one who could manage to look so tastefully distraught while doing so. I want to marry you, and I want us to be bitter and happy. We can have explosive arguments, smash the disgusting green china and suffer each other’s iciest silences.” He enveloped her in his thin arms, kissing the spot on the side of her neck where a constellation of freckles began.

“And then we can passionately make-up. Think, Pansy, us together. Protecting each other as we do now. We’re inevitable. The worse thing you’ve ever done, the darkest thought you’ve ever had- none of that matters. Your dark deeds are nothing to mine. And we’ll stand by each other, no matter how beastly we are.”

With the utmost gentleness, she took his hands from her face and stole one last kiss, admiring that sacred space of closeness and how her words had not seemed to scrape the surface nor made any impact on him.

“It shouldn’t be that way. You’re right… We’re dark and desperate and damaged. And we would always forgive each other. So what is stopping us from cruelty? Nothing. No disproval, no guilt. That is what we would be… and I don’t want that. And I don’t want that for you. You need someone with whom you can start afresh. Someone you want to impress, for who you want to be a better person. And… and I think I need that too. I love you, Draco, but I don’t think I should.”

She swallowed, her throat thick. “When I saw you with Greengrass-“

“She means nothing,” His voice sounded like broken glass.

“I’m not jealous,” Pansy half-lied. “I know you. You were showing off. Or were trying to. You were trying to show her you weren’t all bad. You were being the charming, ambitious, selfishly charitable Malfoy that you should grow into. You were joking, not scheming. That’s the person you should be. We both need to be like that. Attempting goodness, not reveling in shadow and luxuriating in how awful we are. I think our other halves need to almost act as a self-imposed conscience, not a demon on both shoulders. So go in there, stop Marcus talking to her (which I’m sure he his), get her a drink and try persuading her you’re not all that bad by _not being all that bad_. I think you’d make a better effort for her than me – or at least you’ll have to. She’s delightfully high maintenance and lives on a high horse on the highest moral road. It’ll be a lot of effort. Whereas we live comfortably in each other’s sins, sinking lower.”

“No,” replied Draco hoarsely. “Don’t do this. Stop joking about this. Stay.”

“I’m afraid that’s not something you have any control over,” she said, placing the silver and green engagement ring in his hand, feeling finally free.

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy never quite remembered those last few moments of leaving. She chose not to. Draco, for all his occasional old-fashioned honour, felt bound to try anything to keep her. Harsh words were said on his side and for once she did not feel like returning them. She collected her bag, took a fortune’s worth of alcohol and disappeared into the night air.

The moon’s light spun a black magic around her, illuminating the heaven and making the snow glow with eerie beauty. The air was deliciously cold and the distant revelry had an alienating comfort to it. As she walked, the gradual quietness allowed her the comfort to let out a few singular sobs. She drank in the air, and spilled out the misery. But she felt better. She did, she did, she did.

There was a moment she doubted where she should go. What if she was not wanted there, either? What if turning up was inappropriate?

Her home may be empty except for house elves but it was there. As was Luna’s offer of a place for Christmas. She could even head back to Romania – surely it would not be completely abandoned?

Then Pansy remembered she was Pansy and such self-doubt was ridiculous. She had a verbal invitation and a plea for rescue for Merlin’s sake. She’d make herself welcome.

The air popped with a particularly determined clap as she apparated out of existence.

 

* * *

 

 

Her feet left the icy path and landed in snow.

It reached up to her knee and earned the air a particularly violent curse as she materialized into existence. Swearing all the more, she leapt, toes freezing, guarded only by tights.

Mist puffed out of her lungs as she shivered, regarding the Burrow before her. She had no idea what to expect. It was a tall house, extension crookedly built onto extension, bent over like an aged man. It looked worn, but loved. Light shone from every window, illuminating the countryside around her like the only ship sailing in a dark and lonesome sea. It was as bright as happiness, safety.

Two heads were visible through the ground floor window. A plump woman and a man of a similar age whose hair shone in a recognizable red. They seemed to be bickering in a contented fashion while wandering round a kitchen cluttered high with Christmas, no clue that they were being observed by an outsider.

She was Pansy Parkinson and there was no way she would have the courage to knock on that door.

The choice was already made for her.

A third head was frozen at the window. His curls burned brightly in the light. She would know that broad silhouette anywhere, though she could not see his face – only that he had stopped moving completely.

Suddenly he was out the door and worry upon worry flooded her. Charlie was in such haste that he left the front door open as he bounded across the snow. Pansy dropped her bag, wondering whether she still had time to apparate away. His face was obscured by the night. What was his reaction?

Snow trudged up his leg as he approached, her name a question on his lips. She was very away of the ghost of emotion on her face, how drained she was, how her dress was all gothic inappropriateness for turning up at this hour –for turning up at all- and how she was not sure she had anywhere else to go. Or anywhere else she wanted to go.

Charlie’s arms fell securely around her, a ridiculous smile on his face. So bright and lovely. His warmth was so needed and Pansy found her arms tying round his neck as she buried her face into the safe solidness of his shoulder.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he mumbled into her neck, tightening his hold.

“You said you needing saving,” She tried to joke before guilt suddenly overwhelmed her. “But I realize that was probably a joke, and I can go-“

“Are you kidding?” Charlie said, moving back to study the darkness in her eyes. “This is the best Christmas Eve gift I could wish for.”

 


	23. Chapter 23

Charlie took a deep breath. A few more minutes and he could acceptably go to bed.

Molly and Arthur Weasley were amiably bickering about gnomes in the garden, having the same meandering conversation for the fifth time. As fondly as he loved the pair, a mostly empty Burrow was too eerie for him. He was looking forward to a full Weasley house for Christmas; all noise, laughter and madness.

Potter would soak up all of his Mother’s mollycoddling and Father’s curiosities. (At least the boy had one use other than utterly and inadvertently annoying Charlie). He could finally catch up in person with Ginny on her fledgling Quidditch career and ask George how Angelina liked her gift. Bill would bring that calm security he always did and Percy would entertain him with all his straight-laced oddity.

Once Christmas was over and they had basked in the season’s gaiety (and ignored the ghosts in the room), he’d be back to Romania to his Longhorns and his mountains and her. Back to where the blood beat harder in his heart.

In quiet moments, Charlie would re-read the memory of that one night, full of food and dancing, where they had watched the dawn rise over the mountains and slept in each other’s arms. He used that moment like a touch stone, taking it out as one does a trinket to admire. Thinking of it made a strange hope brew in his stomach… one that he did not quite have the courage to stoke.

He cleaned the dishes with an inexorable slowness, enjoying the warm water on his hands and the sharp smell of snow creeping in through the open window. The mountain at night and her; she being a nightmare of wit and will, and he being completely and entirely entranced.

Charlie was glad his back was turned to the others, because he could feel the goofy smile on his face. Ridiculous. How often he had thought of that night? And how often had it had this effect?

He could not quite say what made him look up. Perhaps the small _pop_ had caught on the wind. Perhaps he had known she would come.

Outside the snow glowed under the moon. Dark silhouettes of trees stood still in the night.

One silhouette was new, in a strange but familiar way. It was formed with a clarity that did not fit here. The garden was a place Charlie was fluent with and it was like there was a word outside that jarred. Charlie’s stomach clenched tight and the dish slipped into the sink. As if by thinking of her, he had wished her -

He was out the door in moments, snow to his knees and Pansy Parkinson in his arms, finally.

 

* * *

 

“It’s the best Christmas eve present I could have wished for.”

Charlie’s eyes adjusted to the low light and the figure before him. She was both over and under-dressed, some flimsy and fashionable garb covering her arms with lace as thick as cobweb. Eyeliner smudged at the corners of her eyes and lipstick was mostly waned on her wide mouth. There was the echo of upset on Pansy’s face, but at his words it disintegrated into relief.

“You charmer.”

He drew himself up with faux-pride. “Well, Professor Flitwick always said my Charm work was reliably average… But be honest - you are more than welcome here- but is everything okay, did something happen?”

Pansy took a deep breath, so ready to tell him – what a relief not to want nor need to keep it secret! – until a voice called from within the crooked house: “Pansy, how lovely it is to see you!”

Charlie’s eyes which had been bright with glee widen further with a warning look to Pansy. “Um, you might want to prepare yourself. You’re about to enjoy a true Weasley welcome.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Arthur.” Molly uttered, her body alert by the window.

When her husband made no comment (he was busy trying to work out a Muggle Potato Clock. Unfortunately he was attempting this with the mash), Molly repeated his name with a tense hiss.

“Yes, my Mollywobbles?”

“It’s Charlie. Outside. With a _girl_.”

Arthur joined his wife at the window.

“Oh yes. Were we expecting company?”

“No. Wait – were we? It would be just like Charlie to forget to tell us about visitors. The boy is too laidback. Oh Arthur, I haven’t polished the fireplace!“

“I don’t think that’s necessary –“

“What if we haven’t got enough food –“

“Dear, I really wouldn’t worry –“

“No,” she turned to him, her expression indomitable in true Mrs Weasley fashion. “No. Charlie never brings girls- _guests_.- home. We must make her feel welcome. Arthur, you get Miss Makowski’s Miracle Cleaning Fluid and I’ll re-polish the silverware… How are we going to get this house into a fit state for Charlie’s… um, Charlie’s…”

“Mysterious woman friend? Perhaps we could welcome her by getting her in out of the snow? What’s the girl’s name?”

“Arthur… that’s not…. That’s not a terrible idea.” Molly’s eyes were distant as her mind sieved quickly through all the names Charlie had mentioned over the past few days. Only one had stuck out as being an unusual mention, only one name had been uttered with any tone of reverence. “Pansy. It must be Pansy.”

“Who?” asked Arthur as his wife marched towards the door.

 

* * *

 

 

“Pansy,” Called the stout woman from the doorway once more. “How lovely to see you – Charlie, do take this poor girl in from the cold she must be frozen. Do come in dear!”

“You were expecting me?!” Pansy whispered, throwing a scared smile towards Mrs Weasley.

Charlie honestly knew his family were not, and he could not quite grasp how Mrs Weasley had so quickly worked out who this was. His Mother’s powers of deduction were truly frightening. Rather than reply, he gave Pansy a grin that was both sphinx-like and reassuring.

“You may want to prepare yourself. My Mother is known for being intensely… hospitable.”

And so Pansy Parkinson, Magizoologist (in training), Scourge of Slytherin, One Time Fiancé to Draco Malfoy and Fan of Sacrificing Harry Potter to the Supreme Dark Overlord, entered the Burrow.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sunlight and warmth woke her.

A lovely, safe smell encircled her, making her burrow her nose further into the pillow as she stretched out her limbs. She was happy to be awake, but she was also happy to enjoy the blurring, buzzing not-quite-thinking state she was in.

Slowly, ever so slowly, her mind started to note things.

Firstly, she was in Charlie’s bed.

It was –rather innocently- a single bed. She could tell it was Charlie’s because the thick, warm quilt was a patchwork glory of red, orange and blue, with every other patch displaying a wonkily stitched dragon. Many she assumed were Charlie’s handiwork (few people would bother sewing the triple-horned detail into a Hebredian’s skull). They also would not have made the dragons quite so goofy looking.

She could also tell it was Charlie’s bed because that safe smell was distinctly Charlie. There was something very… soapy about it.

A third clue was the discarded red curls from Charlie’s head on the pillow. Gently, Pansy prodded one with her finger. The fire-red strand gleamed in the sun. There was something so strangely intimate about seeing it.

A fourth clue was that she was wearing Charlie’s blue jumper with the mustard-yellow “C” emblazoned on it. She would (probably) be quite embarrassed if someone had spotted her in what could be described as a Charlie Weasley fangirl jumper, but in the comforting warmth, she wasn’t. Instead she rubbed her chin against the rough wool and waited as her mind caught up with her vision.

Despite all these clue, despite the very Charlie-ness of their nature, there was definitely no Charlie in this bed. Nor, Pansy thought, had there been.

Blinking, she stared around the room. It was crooked. Though this was unsurprising due to the crooked nature of this house, with extension haphazardly built on extension.

The walls on one half of the room (definitely Charlie’s) were covered in Quidditch posters and the occasional academic diagram of a dragon. The other side of the room was a topographical masterpiece. There were old maps nestled beside pictures of pyramids, Aztec ruins, New Atlanta… and amid them, fighting for space, were band posters (none of which Pansy had heard of – they looked distinctly too cool for lesser mortals without someone welcoming them into the fold). Beneath this contrasting wall was another single bed with dark purple bedding.

There wasn’t a Charlie in this bed either.

The rest of the small space was taken up with generic adolescent cast offs, though it was all kept in quite good order. There were no piles of dirty clothes or humps of mystery rubbish. Instead, Quidditch trophies glinted by neatly folded piles of socks and old joke-shop remnants were scattered on dust-free surfaces.

On Charlie’s bedside table was a tall mountain of well-loved paperbacks. Surprisingly –or perhaps not surprisingly, seeing as he got enough of them in his day job- there was no novel on dragons. Instead there was a reasonably impressive collection of crime novels, a couple battered copies of Scamander journals and, notably, a book on knitting patterns. There were one or two books there that Pansy had on her ‘to read’ list. Looking at the collection she wondered if he’d want to borrow a copy of the _Auror Account_ or even try a Sherlock Holmes…

A deep, sleepy breath brought her attention to the ground and she crept to the side of the bed. Careful not to make the ancient bed squeak, she peered half her face over and was relieved the sound came from a Charlie Weasley and not a Charlie The Something Else.

He too was in a Weasley jumper, a slightly newer one by the look of it, and his face was unperturbed in sleep. It felt like a strange and wonderful trespass to be able to look at him in this moment. Even in sleep that usual solidness was there and, inevitably, his gentleness. The sun split his face between light and shadow while Pansy followed the constellation of freckles on his face with her gaze.

How lovel-

 

 

!!!!!!!

…

……..

………….

OH BY SALAZAR SLYTHERIN’S FRILLY PINK SUSPENDERS

OH

OH MERLIN

NO

NO NO NO NO

WHY WOULD THIS?

HOW COULD SHE?!

_NOOOO_

 

Pansy went from glorious calm to paroxysm of delayed guilt and shame. Her hangover –both physical and mental- suddenly swung at her as her mind finally woke up, launching itself back into the memories from last night.

She contorted herself into the fetal position while muttering under her breath “It’s fine, it’s fine, it can’t be that bad – it can’t be all that bad?” Then let out a groan as her mind concluded back _Actually yes it can…_

 

Awful, horrid, shameful moments came back to her as she shuffled through her memories. Please say she hadn’t…

 

* * *

 

 

The evening had actually started off remarkably well.

It was a joy what non-Slytherin parents were like. When you complimented their child, they _liked_ it. Usually when Pansy had said a nice remark in the past, the typical response was a look of suspicion twinned with a glare of “Well, obviously.”

Arthur and Molly were tickled pink by what she was saying about Charlie. Quite sincerely she told them how well liked he was, what high esteem Wynne held him in, how he was a complete genius with dragons.

Charlie, midway through this onslaught realized she wasn’t even being a little bit sarcastic, and turned a bright shade of beetroot.

To combat his embarrassment (and pride) he retaliated with compliments in a somewhat less rarefied manner, boasting of everything from her grand train- _accio_ -ing first impression to the masterful way she de-scaled a dragon. Even though the latter wasn’t incredibly flattering, at least it made her snigger… (After all, she was very good at de-scaling a dragon).

Unbeknownst to Charlie, Pansy was remarkably good at reading his Mother. Charlie tended to have this slight blind-spot in judging whether a story was too death defying or dull for family consumption, but in tandem with Pansy they made day to day tales thrilling and the more life critical stories sound like an adventurous jaunt. He had wondered whether his parents would take to her… but there was something about her old school wizarding manners, openness and their mutual fondness of the rogue Weasley that made this meeting work.

In fact the meeting went so well that it escalated to a surreal Celestina Warbeck duet between Pansy and Molly using rogue leeks as microphones.

That image (and caterwauling sound) would probably be seared in Charlie’s mind for all eternity. Something about two of the most terrifying women in his life joining together in song felt awfully worrying…

The Weasleys didn’t even notice that a couple of Pansy’s Christmas “presents” (i.e. liberated bottled of expensive Elven wine from Malfoy Manor) had been partially drunk. Molly was much too worried that she was feeding Pansy left-over Shepard’s pie to even notice that Pansy’s gift of luxurious Nectar Chocolates had been partially scoffed already.

Overall, it had been a good first meeting with no wands drawn, no mention of Wizarding Wars, mudbloods, Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, dead/incarcerated/maimed family members, Death Eaters, Voldemort, the questionable politics of Albus Dumbledore, poverty, or possible marriage/romance. In fact, all slightly questionable topics were never even almost broached. Polite questions about Pansy’s family and business came and went without a raised eyebrow or exclamation of “…But aren’t you in cahoots with the Malfoys, YOU SLYTHERIN SCUMBAG?”

It was a perfectly polite and enjoyable evening, more enjoyable than either Pansy or Charlie would have predicted.

His parents finally retired to bed at 1am citing how frightfully late it was. Admittedly, Charlie was getting a little impatient at this point. It was great –and a bit scary- how well Molly, Arthur and Pansy were getting on, but he could not quite relax until he knew Pansy was okay. Something had happened, and despite Pansy’s relaxed smile there was a weariness in her eyes that was not entirely due to midnight hours and the obligation to perform for parents.

In silence, they listened to the pair creaking up the stairs, easy domestic mutterings gradually fading as the ascended to bed.

“Hello,” Pansy said as soon as the house fell quiet, a wicked grin on her face.

“Hello,” Charlie replied, feeling a weird relief.

A moment alone felt wonderfully conspiratorial.

“Was that okay? Your parents seem absolutely lovely – and I’m so sorry to crash in like this, it’s completely-“

“It’s more than okay! Pansy… _What was that?_ Do you have some kind of second degree in Parent Charming? Mum’s known Hermione for about a decade and they’ve never done a midnight recital of ‘A Cauldron Full of Hot Sweet Love’ together. In fact, I think she still calls her Mrs Weasley…”

“I have my talents,” she shrugged nonchalantly. ( _YES_ , Pansy’s brain cried, _I’ve won! Now it’s 397 exams in Hermione’s favour vs 1 charmed parent…_ )

“So… is this a possible rescue? However much my Mother might like you, I’m not sure how well it would go down if you kidnap me on Christmas.”

Pansy gave a dry laugh. “No, not a rescue. It’s a touch complicated. As it always is.”

“Would you rather have a cup of tea and discuss Quidditch than talk about it? I’m easy with either. Like you, um, like you said to me once – I’m happy to talk or not talk.”

Charlie’s ears burned red as he realized the possible euphemism of his words. Pansy, feeling charitable and exhausted, let him off without even embarrassing him a little. (Well, she gave him a knowing look which made his blush spread to his neck – she is after all Pansy Parkinson, not some Hufflepuff saint).

“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive are they? Because we really need to talk about what madness your friend Wood is stirring up in the Puddlemere United team...”

Charlie brewed them some milky, sweet tea and they moved to the living room. Pansy took the opportunity to nose around while Charlie stoked the fire. She was happy they’d moved rooms, the family clock had disturbed her. All the Weasley names, plus the three musketeers and that one pretty, Triwizard girl, were all present on there except for Fred. She wanted to feel disturbed that someone would know, at least vaguely, what you were doing at all times. She could see it was definitely a breach of privacy. Yet, what she actually felt was a little jealousy. Her family would never have considered such a device. She bet Draco would love to get his hands on it to see how it worked…

The thought of him, midway through her contemplation of a Weasley family picture (gosh, there were a lot of them), quashed her calm exhaustion.

“I went to stay at Draco’s.” Pansy declared to Charlie’s back. And just in case that needed clarification, she added, “Draco Malfoy.”

The back of his plaid shirt didn’t give much of a response (it wouldn’t, it’s a shirt) so she charged on.

“He’s one of my closest friends… it made sense. At the time. Weird sense. He kind of, well, proposed. And I didn’t say yes. But I also didn’t say no. I’ve said no now though, because it’s frankly ridiculous and based on feelings from like five years ago and it only made sense from the perspective of a sociopathic robot. I don’t feel for him in that way. I just want you to know. We were kind of together over the holidays, but it was more like play-acting and not what I want – he’s not what I want-“

 

(Pansy in the present gave a groan as she remembered this bit, vaguely wishing to be consumed into nothingness so her babbling, rom-com idiocy talk could be forgotten. How awful. Was this the moment articulacy died?)

 

Charlie stood up and turned round. She did not have a prediction for how he would react. Loud anger? Sullen quietness? Or worse… would he not care at all?

Mirth was definitely not what she would have guessed at.

Bless him, he was trying not to, but the laughter bubbled up from somewhere and his typical Charlie chortle filled the room. His nose scrunched under the weight of hilarity as Pansy looked at him, shocked.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Pansy,” he tried to say, seeing her gob-smacked displeasure but not being able to stop the belly laughs erupting in bursting chokes. He bent-double and fell onto the sofa. “It’s … it’s just… I have been so bored here. You cannot imagine. And you show up with your inevitable, wonderful self – and suddenly it’s not boring anymore. You make everything very much not boring in the most surprising way.”

“I broke off an engagement,” Pansy started, trying to keep an icy, collected tone in her voice, but completely failing as his chuckling was completely contagious. “With a person who could be considered your family’s remaining nemesis-“

“I know! My best friend almost marrying into the consumptive McEvil clan.”

“- _And you think this is hilarious?!”_ Pansy guffawed. She couldn’t keep it in any longer. Slumping onto the sofa with him, limbs and laughter tangling, they giggled long and hard. Almost regaining composure, Charlie bundled her in his arms so they could properly look at each other and so that she knew they were still friends.

“I feel… I feel _a lot_ of things about what you have just told me. Some I’m sure are not going to truly hit me for a little while. Mostly, and I think this is why I found the news so funny, mostly I think it’s relief.”

A strange, still look crept over Pansy’s features, which Charlie recognized as her trying to hide… disappointment?

“When I saw you in the snow, I thought no way is Pansy Parkinson going to be gracing the Weasley household unless something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. I’ve spent the past few hours guessing whether some one had died or… or you’d become homeless… or…”

“It would not take me becoming homeless to visit you, Charlie.”

“Well, I really appreciate that. And I’m very sorry that I just laughed at what is probably something very -”

“Surreal. It isn’t traumatic or meaningless. But I feel okay about it. I hate to admit it but the laughing kind of helped. Draco and I have spent the past decade breaking up… this just feels like relief. Be honest… do you hate me? Even a little bit?”

Charlie paused. He wanted to be honest. He wanted to be brave.

He wanted Pansy and there was an element of this that hurt. Draco would have a part of her he could not touch, and he was in no way like a Malfoy. No wealth, no grace, no perfectly coiffed blond hair. If Pansy wanted Draco, there was little likelihood she would look his way.

“I, naturally, have some qualms about the Malfoys. However, getting to know you has shown me that… The war was a difficult, complicated time. I only know half the story. I’m sure he must have some redeeming feature?”

“Hmm, questionable.”

“Still, if it were up to me, you’d be put in a safe place, far away from him-“

“With dragons?” Pansy added quizzically.

“Preferably with dragons. And not that I’d ever want to impose that safe place on you… but I’d possibly prefer it, which is selfish and I’ve forgotten my point entirely. Um. I like that you’re here. I’m a bit confused over the Malfoy stuff. I’m not going to stop speaking to you like in Romania. Um.”

Pansy leant over and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Thanks.”

“S’alright.”

“So why on earth was Wood telling the Puddlemere team to do Chelmondiston Charge at every opportunity? It’s bloody madness.”

“Wood is a dangerous but wise man…” Charlie began.

It was about 2am at this point, and though the two were exhausted they had been so starved of the other’s company that the conversation came quick and silly. Tiredness and stress was it’s own kind of alcohol. Charlie spoke of George and the possibility of Angelina, while Pansy shared her thoughts about Millicent and Theo, and how lovely and unlovely it had been seeing her Slytherin comrades. She spoke in rationed terms about Draco – enough to show they were friends but that it was over. Charlie was tickled by the stories of the anthropomorphized topiary despite not really liking to here about this black comedic chaos of a person.

“How are you feeling?” Charlie asked as dawn crept through the curtains.

It had been a long time since anyone had asked her that question. They had, somewhat naturally, curled around each other. Pansy’s legs over his, his arms around her waist, her head at his neck. Body contacting body. Pansy never knew how to refer to that reflective touch. Knowing that you were touching someone, and they were having an equal and opposite reaction to your skin.

She did not feel distressed. Quite the opposite. Draco felt like a far away thing. There was only Charlie and his charm and his comfort. They had been so easy and so tangled for such a period of the night that being suddenly aware of his hand _here_ and her leg _there_ felt bizarre. Reactions grew within her that she wanted to quash – _no, I’m meant to be heart broken, not heart mended._

“Hmm?” He questioned again to her hairline, lips moving there in a secret and subtle kiss.

Pansy drew back, her black eyes blazing to his blue.

Purple dusted his eyes with tiredness and his curls were askew. Like his kindness and humour, there was no denying the pure physicality of Charlie. How did she keep not seeing it? She felt so used to his face and movements that she could almost not work out whether he was handsome or not. His jaw was clear and sharp, his mouth full and bee stung with a constant (lying) grin, and his freckles frankly ridiculous.

All of this she liked. All of this made something in her _tug_ , and it had so for a long time.

She was going to make something happen. There was no point wondering. A true scientist would put it to the test.

One leg unhooked and repositioned to the other side of Charlie’s hip as one hand clasped his collar. Pansy shifted so she was sitting in his lap. Charlie looked shocked (though his hands snaked up her waist like they belonged there).

This moment deserved some words. Meaningful, poetic, romantic words. Words that meant _thank you_ and _I want you_ and _kiss me_.

Nothing would suit.

Instead Pansy said her question to his lips, and thankfully, gloriously, he answered.

 

 

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

Only fairy tales end in a kiss.

 

Pansy, eyes tight shut, lips twisting between a grim and a grimace, gave a pathetic groan into Charlie’s pillow.

From a few feet beneath her, a voice graveled by late night said “Are you quite alright?”

She gave a noise half way between a “Yes” and a second, muffled groan. She peaked half her face over the side of the bed, perfectly aware her cheeks were pink with embarrassment.

“Good morning,” she said, quite severely.

Unbeknownst to her, the effect was quite ruined by the rebellious nature of her hair and the seriousness of her eye contrasting with her reddening cheeks. Despite his bleary vision, Charlie thought her invariably lovely.

Rather than reply he reached up his hand, clasped her shoulder, and with the utmost ease and care… propelled her out of bed and into the crook of his arms.

“Good morning,” he replied, taking an appreciative inhale of her hair.

Pansy was not quite sure whether to be impressed, annoyed or… _other_ at this early morning manhandling. Despite the surprised feeling of nausea she experienced while being catapulted through the air, she did not have any complaints about her landing spot. In fact, Charlie’s shoulder was quite a satisfactory place to hide her humiliated face.

He rubbed her back in a very similar fashion to how he calmed the Longhorns if they were getting a touch catty.

“I’m told I’m not the most perceptive person (usually by you), but I get the feeling something isn’t quite right,” he said as Pansy let out another undignified groan.

Despite all his numerous good traits and collection of bad ones, Charlie was still a twenty-something male of easily threatened ego. Tremulously, he said (in the way of young men looking for validation), “Was last night not, um, I mean…? Did you not… like…it?”

Pansy glanced up at him. It wasn’t a matter of liking or not liking last night. It was her actions and her words that were the matter. She was used to being forthright, but not used to being… compromised.

 

* * *

 

 

The kiss shouted through her bones.

It had started as this chaste lean in, and then before she knew it she was on Charlie’s lap with his hands on her waist – placed like they were always meant to be there - and her palms in his hair, guiding that sharp jaw of his closer closer closer.

It seemed all of the joking about Charlie’s maladroitness with women was purely on the level of verbal interaction (typical Gryffindor). Pansy, however, was far from innocent and nipped lightly on his slightly bee-stung lips earning an appreciative sound that shook through her. She leant back, teasing, and was rewarded with a response that was part annoyance, part enthusiasm.

He was so different. He was so safe.

Yet Charlie was not a safe man. He chased adrenaline, free falling, fire, dragons. And her.

He was so careful with her, so -

Different. No doubt was here. She could move and not feel afraid at what the response was. His touch felt like she was being cherished, rather than someone counting the number of ribs they could feel. It felt like someone asking _is this okay? Can I?_ _May I?_ Rather than _is this enough for me? Are you enough? Satisfy me._

He was a soft strength, not a dry and brittle need drinking the love out of her.

 

And this was what made her stop.

 

His lips, so kind, were not the cruel kisses she was used to. Those cruel kisses she had taken to her lips mere hours ago. Years of those kisses. Each etched on her, now being chased and blotted out as if a palimpsest was being made of her skin.

 

And like that something that felt so right didn’t any more.

 

It felt like she was buying credit she could not afford to pay back. But she couldn’t say no, she couldn’t say no to his kindness, she’d never said no before.

 

Charlie, so tangled in his feelings, did not notice for a moment Pansy’s ebb. When he finally felt her still a heart beat later, he drew back and placed a low and asking kiss on her cheek. Her eyes were shining with a peculiar brightness and she stroked a curl of his hair.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie,” she said in a whisper, utterly aghast.

His thumbs stroked paths across her cheeks, trying to divine the change.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” he said honestly.

She looked tired. Strung out from feeling what seemed like every possible emotion in too short a time.

“I want… I want this. You. But… it doesn’t feel quite right, yet. Not after today. I mean, I just _ended_ it… And… is that okay?” She felt idiotic for asking that, however she was relieved that her eyes stayed (relatively) dry. Too many tears had been spilled for Draco Malfoy. She wasn’t going to waste more when the mere thought of him was obstructing her from what she wanted (i.e. getting laid).

Charlie gave a low laugh and leaned their foreheads together.

“That is entirely sensible. I don’t quite like to admit this, but I’m not sure my ego is quite settled enough to be an immediate rebound. To bed, then?”

 

Which is how they came to find themselves in Charlie’s bedroom. There was a moment where they almost shared the bed, but saw each other’s flamed cheeks and wonderfully wide pupils and decided it would be wise if they didn’t. Temptation twice avoided might be asking too much.

They didn’t sleep immediately, even the 4am light could not suffer that. In their waning energy, Pansy told him more. A few secrets muttered in the dark of his bedroom that she had only admitted to a rare few. It was the first time she had recounted seventh year to anyone, well… parts of it. And she told him one more thing, one thing she had been promised never to tell.

 

It was those words and those narrowly missed midnight actions that worried her. _Never tell_ , they had said. Never tell.

 

* * *

 

“There are only three people left alive, who are not blood relations, that know what I told you last night, Charlie.” His hand stroked her back, slowly, waiting. “I’m not worried at all what you’ll do with that information. Not a bit. It just takes a little getting used to? The others are Slytherins – loyalty is in our marrow (that and the knowledge of mutual self-destruction if we were to betray one another)… telling you is a bit different.”

She didn’t want to say it was a bargaining chip or a test of trust. After so many months of not sharing things with Charlie, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to tell him this one thing and for him to blink at it as if it was nothing at all. Others would see it as information to kill or to die for.

“And as for me not liking last night, I’m not quite sure what you’re referring to…” She looked him straight in the eye mischievously expecting him to look momentarily baffled. Instead, he raised an eyebrow in a weirdly familiar manner. He was getting cocky.

“Is that so?”

“Hmm, not at all. Not unless you’re referring to this,” she stretched to reach the side of his brow and placed a kiss there. “Or this…” She whispered, kissing the side of his mouth.

She was so close that the expression of his eyes narrowing and mouth smiling was such a distraction that she hadn’t a chance to predict his hand dovetailing with the crease of her knee, and _angling her_ -

“ _Breakfast, Charlie_!” Echoed shrill familiar tones of someone who had clearly spent an awkward amount of time listening to an extended period of kissing before building up the courage to say something.

Charlie swore under his breath. It was the most attractive thing he’d done all morning.

“It’s probably for the best,” Pansy sighed seriously, trying not to look at his bicep looming above her head. His jumper had been jettisoned pretty swiftly. Pansy prided herself on her efficiency in such matters. “Rebound rules, of course.”

Two crimson eyebrows met in a good-natured frown. “Did we have a time frame for this… Not that I’m trying to, um, hurry things-“

She moved slightly, calculated. He muffled a groan into her lips.

“You are the devil. In my pajamas.”

Pansy smiled sweetly. “You were expecting...?”

“Foolish statement,” he kissed her nose and drew himself up, eliciting a furious frown at his absence and the frightfully cold winter draft that she’d been too preoccupied to previously notice. “Because I’m a little fond of you, I’ll do you the service of not going downstairs in an identical Weasley jumper.”

“People would get terribly confused, what with our similar looks and everything.”

He turned and took off his jumper. Pansy prided herself on not actually weeping at the sight of him. His back was ridiculous. For all his broad shoulders and muscled bulk, he had a remarkably slim, toned waist. Words like _rippled_ and _beautiful_ and _my god_ all came to Pansy’s mind and she was very glad to have been struck so embarrassingly mute. Her head was starting to sound like a Mills  & Boon novel.

He cast a little glance back to her (Pansy ensuring her face was trained to a little pleasant smile, rather than a goldfish’s gob smacked façade). “It looks better on you anyway.”

Looking at him now, it felt very difficult to compute that her messy, disheveled self could equate to that. However being a Parkinson, she refused to show any weakness and shrugged this off with an impressive amount of cognitive dissonance.

“Charles Albert Cornelius Miranda Weasley-“

“My middle name is Septimus, after my grandfather… and apparently my parents who cannot count-“

“Is that a tattoo?”

“I don’t think I know what you’re referring to….” Charlie replied mildly, taking longer than he usually did to pick a shirt.

Pansy lifted herself from the blanket nest on the floor, her shoulder peeking out of the neck of her jumper, and touched his back gently.

The boy actually shivered at her touch.

When his muscles stopped quivering she laid her palm flat on his back, warm and comforting to indicate she was safe, and stroked upwards to follow the picture’s path.

“Hmm, I don’t know how to tell you this. I’m pretty sure it’s a tattoo.”

“You’re sure?”

“I could try cursing it off, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere. You don’t remember getting a giant tattoo from your tailbone to your shoulder blade?”

“Um… Oh, now you mention it. I’m not sure about a tattoo, though I do remember getting a spontaneous act of rebellion drawn on my back. Think it was something to do with travelling, _meaningful_ , yadah yadah, something permanent to remind me of my youthful idiocy. That’s probably what it is.”

“Could be, could be,” nodded Pansy, somewhat entranced. Of course, he would have a tattoo. Charlie “Thrill seeking within the lines” Weasley, she thought fondly. It wasn’t bad. It was a bright and brilliant turquoise green, made of a series of triangles and swooping lines. It shone against his skin, rippling with the curves on his back.

“If you squint it kind of looks like a dragon…. That’s a bit out of character for you. I always had you down for a butterfly tramp stamp kind of guy, or maybe an inspirational quote? Like… _Let magic be your guide_ or _Challenge Accepted._ ”

“Haha. Now let’s have breakfast so I can avoid ravishing you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and sweetness.

Mrs Weasley was on form, panicking only out of habit when really everything was in perfect order under her stringent care. Rather than accept help in the kitchen, she batted Charlie away to rearrange the holly outside and for Pansy to cover every possible surface of the living room with mince pies and other assorted food groups.

Pansy had donned a pair of trousers and added a smart white shirt under the Weasley jumper. It was an odd mix of preppy and slouchy, but she didn’t want to part with the blue woolen monstrosity yet.

She was glad Mrs Weasley had sent Charlie outside. She felt too full of him. She wanted to experience the Weasley house for herself for a bit, playing pretend that she was used to a family that did this – who cooked and cared and said how well she was looking (without the implication of well meaning rotund). Here she was dressed as a Weasley, munching on Weasley food, making stupid faces to a Weasley through a Weasley window. Anxious and angry Pansy Parkinson felt very far away. What really was there to worry about in this warm home and loving family?

Charlie made a last gruesome face through the window before his father called him to help rebalance the 13 foot Christmas tree which had gained a worrying tilt. Pirouetting in the lounge with the last plate of mince pies, she could not quite think of when she had felt quite so content.

Behind her was the sudden noise of chaos. Lots of voices, jovial, laughing, clamored from the front door.

 _Oh Merlin, no_ , Pansy thought, clutching the plate of mince pies to her, _how could I forget._

“Mum, we’re home! Pop the kettle on-“

“Hello, Mrs Weasley, we’re here- uh… hello?”

Three figures stood in the doorway, looking at her as they’d just seen a Swedish Short Snout read the morning news. The tallest, a malformed gangly version of Charlie, actually let out a little shriek while the expression on the girl next to him turned from shocked to thunderous. Even Harry Potter, looking like some weird mirror version of herself with messy black hair, even height and a scarlet Weasley jumper, seemed to be taken aback.

Pansy bared her teeth in an attempt to smile and proffered the plate of mince pies, wondering distantly how good a shield it might make.

“Er, Merry Christmas?”

Hermione’s face turned even whiter with rage. It looked like she was beyond speech, which was a relief because Ron was not.

“Do we arrest her?” he said, as if Pansy wasn’t there. “Why is she wearing Charlie’s jumper? Good Merlin, what has she done with him? Where’s Mum?”

“We saw your Mum through the window. She’s alright, Ron,” replied Harry, who did not sound wholly convinced. Pansy hadn’t looked away from the terrifying trio, but she became aware Harry had taken out his wand without her even noticing. _Shit_ , she thought, _mine’s upstairs. Brilliant witching, Pansy. Maybe if you get mince pie in their eye you can get out of this one_ …

A tall red head appeared at the door, but not the red head Pansy was hoping for. This one lacked an ear.

The remaining half of the Psychopath Twins saw Pansy and swore. “Isn’t that Malfoy’s bint?”

Automatically, and not very helpfully, she replied, “Actually, Malfoy was my bint. I couldn’t bint for my life.”

A blond comet appeared from between their heads and for a second Pansy thought she might pass out. How could Draco be here too?!

Slipping like a hare through their elbows, Luna emerged wearing a ridiculous orange summer dress and looking as beautiful as an angel.

“I knew you’d be here,” her melodic voice sang, no panic or excessive excitement evident as she gave Pansy a much needed hug.

“I am _so_ glad to see you, Luna.” Pansy reluctantly released her once she realized it looked like she was using Luna as a human shield. (Which, if we’re to be perfectly honest, she was).

More heads gathered at the door – Girl Weasley (Also with a look of shock. Merlin that one is going to be awkward after 7th year), Veela Wealsey (looking aesthetically affronted at how crowded the doorway was), Wolf Scars Weasley ( _Bill_ , Pansy reminded herself, and latched onto his kind, jovial expression) and finally Crazy Dragon Weasley.

Pansy panicked at him with her eyes, and using his gentle bulk he moved through the crowd to join her and Luna at the other side of the room. Three against seven. At least they had seventy-five mince pies on their side.

“I think most of you know Pansy from school,” Charlie introduced her, utter calm emanating from him. He placed a reassuring hand on her lower back. “Pansy is my… fri… erm, Pansy?”

“You’re her bint?” George said, traumatised.

“What?”

Next to George, Ron looked like he was having a heart attack. “I always knew Charlie would bring home something deadly. Worst than Hagrid, you are. First those death defying broom rides when I was seven. Then the dragons. The reckless apparating. This. You’re trying to kill us all.”

“Well, Merry bloody Christmas, everyone,” said George. “I think I need a drink.”

 

 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Hermione wondered whether this was the worst conceivable Christmas.

Technically, it should have been the Christmas of seventh year; grieving over Ron and feeling incapable to help Harry's true grief over his parents; thinking still over her own, who would not be thinking of her. Those sorrows felt even more unconquerable than the search and destruction of the Horcruxes.

Yes, that was a Christmas of misery. This was one of fury.

Hermione man-handled the boys into Ron's tiny childhood room, fuming to the very tips of her hair. As if sensing her outrage, the family ghoul (affectionately named - by Ginny - Bernard) started a cantankerous orchestra of bangs and wailing from the attic above them. Ginny slipped in behind the three and shut the door, leaving them claustrophobic and overly warm in such a small space. Hermione's mind was whizzing so fast she forgot to complain about the mess in Ron's room – _he didn't even live here any more, how could it be in such a state?_

"Blimey, watch it Hermione!" Ron yelped as he hit his head on his slanted orange ceiling.

"What are we going to do? Pansy's helping your Mum make _stuffing_!" In her excitement Hermione landed too much emphasis on the end of her sentence, making it sound much more like she had a problem with Christmas accouterments than slithery Slytherin… _bitches_.

 _Yes_ , that was the word Hermione was going to use, at least in the privacy of her own mind. It was accurate.

"It's difficult. There's the risk that she's poisoning all our food, but there's the greater risk that Mum will be insulted if we pass up any of it," Ginny replied. As always, she exuded a calm confidence. Nothing about her brilliant smile and striking looks would have hinted at anything vaguely anxious. Except, Hermione spied, that her fingers were playing with her hair a touch nervously. "I really don't know which option scares me more."

"Do you think Charlie knows who she is?" asked Ron.

"Must do," said Harry running a habitual hand through his own tangled mop. Hermione was never sure if he were trying to neaten or disrupt his hair further with this motion.

"No, no – he can't. If he knew anything… surely she wouldn't be here?" Hermione muttered.

Pansy was just a school bully. Her presence shouldn't have the power to make her feel eleven and awkward and unloved. It was a fathomless anger. She should not fear this awful, clumpy, sneering girl, but she was with the family and friends that she loved, and no one was behaving the way she wanted them to. Except Ron. His confused anger was a comfort, it felt like he was expressing himself for her. Harry seemed confused but unbothered. He'd weathered bigger things and the Weasley house would be nothing but a haven to him.

Fleur was treating her like a comrade in arms in a way she never had with Hermione, who really had never been an outsider to the Weasleys. Perversely, Mrs Weasley seemed to absolutely adore the traitor in their midst. They chatted about traditional Wizarding Christmases and inane celebrity gossip – topics that Hermione, despite half her life spent as a witch, still felt on the periphery of. It was like Pansy was circumnavigating the overly polite phase that Hermione thought it was her duty to follow. Pansy cracked _jokes_. Not that they were funny. They were sharp and barbed, often pointed at Charlie whose smile grew bigger every time she needled him.

"Would she be here if Charlie knew?" Hermione repeated the question, staring directly at Harry.

His green eyes were oddly obscured behind his glasses. Always she'd been able to tell if he wasn't quite sharing everything with them, and ever since he'd joined up with the Aurors she got that feeling of evasiveness more and more. Not that Harry was ever really very good at keeping things from Ron and herself. Even now he had definitely broken the Official Secrecy Act more than once and picked their brains on tricky cases.

But this new secrecy was uncomfortable for her in a way she didn't find with Ron. He came back to their cottage in Shropshire too exhausted and grouchy to want to share the day, and unbothered by Harry's distance. _"I wouldn't worry, Hermione. If it was serious, he'd tell us –not that he really should. It's probably just more bureaucratic nonsense. Do you know how much paperwork I had to fill out over Magnacious Grove's rogue kettle? Thirteen pages! Would have been more efficient to leave it at the Muggle property – they probably wouldn't have been too bothered that their tea was turning into tequila."_

Ginny tended to roll her eyes whenever she broached the subject of Harry's elusiveness, and make not unkind (though quite acerbic) comments that she'd just have to learn to be on the outside of somethings. Well, Hermione already felt on the outside. Being uninformed was a new, unpleasant experience.

Ron snorted. "I think you're forgetting that this is the man who helped three eleven year olds smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts, no questions asked, with a response of 'Another dragon? GREAT!' I'm fond of him, but Charlie's a utter madman."

Ginny looked at the three of them with doleful affection. "One day I'm going to stop being surprised when you lot come out with stuff like that. You know how you always go on about trouble finding you – it's an absolute lie, right? You're just as thrill-seeking as Charlie is. I bet you'd have found Hogwarts dead dull without the constant threat of…. _Everything_."

Hermione drew herself up, indignant. "Well, that's not really relevant right now, Ginny. Maybe you could say something to Charlie?"

"Why? I don't see what good it would do," she replied, an odd glance going between Harry and herself.

"Well," Hermione picked her words carefully. God, she hated that Harry and Ron were in separate Auror divisions – divided for the first time in their lives. If they had been partnered together at least she'd have some insight. Something was going on, and Ron never held up under questioning.

This whole Pansy business was not helping her irritation. It felt like hot pepper under her skin.

"It would probably come better from you if you mentioned that Pansy was…. Um, with a _certain crowd_ at Hogwarts… and tried to offer Harry to Tom Riddle?"

AND was generally awful and made Hermione's childhood a living hell? Something along those lines?

"I don't think that's wise," Ginny replied. "If I say that, he'll end up admitting he's not Harry's greatest fan. I'm not sure how to handle those words from my favourite brother. I think we should… roll with it. "

"He's _WHAT_ -" spluttered the boys - Harry vaguely surprised that Ron wouldn't be anyone's favorite, and Ron indignant on Harry's behalf.

"I just don't like it," said Ron bluntly. "I'm going to talk some sense into Charlie."

Ginny laughed, auburn hair coming out of her knot. "Yes, because when has that worked with _Charlie_. You're not exactly a fountain of wisdom yourself, Ron."

"So you're happy with this development? Our brother is dating Draco's succubus and Harry's Judas? And you're happy with that?"

There was a short silence, interrupted by a short snort from Harry.

"Has Hermione been reading the Muggle Encyclopedia to you again, mate?"

Ron's ear went pink. "No. Not since… you said that you're not actually meant to read it from A-Z. Mr Granger is very knowledgeable on Muggle myths and religions. It's very interesting stuff."

"Just call him 'Roger,'" mumbled Hermione. Her mind was too busy unpicking her emotions. Perhaps if she kept plucking, kept taking out the irrational strands all that would be left would be a single thread – like Theseus in the Minotaur maze. A single path to show her the way out of this situation. She was a first year Law student. She helped save the wizarding world. She was widely, and affectionately, known as the brightest witch of her age. She could deal with Pansy Parkinson.

"It's odd that you don't call him Roger," she added distractedly.

"I'd much rather call him 'sir'. At least until he likes me. Plus you call my Mum _Mrs Weasley_."

"Yeah, well…" Hermione didn't really want to get into an argument about parents and likeability. Especially when she'd just seen Pansy and Mrs Weasley laughing uproariously together. How did they get to be on such good terms in such a short about of time?

The answer felt beyond her, obscured. Friendship was always easier for Pansy. Even though she was Draco's lapdog, ultimately unpleasant and probably evil, people seem to gather to her. She got on well with her whole house (why else had she even been made prefect?) and had some select friendships in Ravenclaw. Hermione couldn't even befriend her roommates of six years. Merlin, even _Luna_ liked her – though the working of Luna's mind was always a challenge and anomaly.

Not that Hermione was friendless. Ron and Harry liked her. The Weasley's liked her. Ginny had set herself up as her best friend, or vice versa, she was never sure. Yet all these felt like hard won battles, as if it was only time smoothing out her harsh edges and giving people space to see something acceptable rather than the bushy haired, annoying know-it-all who always had to be right.

Pansy always had to be liked. Or not liked. You couldn't be ambivalent about Pansy, and often you seemed to have no choice. She decided whether you were on good terms or bad and there was no changing it.

Hermione had an awful flash back to school. To the hundred, may be thousands, of unpleasantly snide comments that pug-faced girl had said to her. _Weirdo. Ugly. Buck-tooth. Mudblood._ Hermione had never been quiet, but she'd never been able to say words that matched the hurt. All she could ever do was blink away bitter tears.

She'd never told Ron or Harry. Inevitably they would have done something noble and stupid. She didn't need them to defend her honour. As they became older, the comments had lessened but the stakes had become higher. The fear of Voldemort should have trumped the fear of Pansy and her cronies. It should have. However, it felt impossible to disentangle the Slytherins, Voldemort and hatred of Muggleborns. She knew their prejudice, where their precious loyalty lay and she knew that just as Pansy had tried to give up Harry, it would have taken her less than a heartbeat to serve up Hermione. They would have killed her in a second. Anything to get rid of her dirty, Muggle blood.

"May be if Charlie-"

There was a knock at the door - speak of the devil, that very madman poked his head around the door.

"Alright, you lot?" It wasn't clear whether Charlie found anything shifty about the four holding a secret meeting in Ron's thimble-sized room. If anything, his blazing smile widen further. "Hope I'm not interrupting - Percy's just arrived with Audrey and is already spouting about Fireplace regulations. You best come down to provide a distraction before George chokes him with tinsel."

* * *

Pansy was strongly considering escape.

She must be completey orphaned from her senses. She was lost in a den of Weasleys (plus a Potter and Lovegood and an increasingly grouchy Granger).

Perhaps she was actually sitting in sixth form charms having been knocked out by a rogue Confundus Charm? Maybe she was sitting in Malfoy Manor having been severely poisoned by… Merlin, _any of them_? Had she taken some Fairy Dust and was on some horrific trip?

What on earth was going on.

It was also becoming increasingly and grotesquely apparent to her that she was hung over, which she felt was a personal character weakness.

She didn't get hangovers. She got painkillers. However, asking Mrs Weasley whether she'd mind brewing a cup of Madam Fitzgerald's _The Morning After The Disaster Before_ was a much more embarrassing prospect that excessively complimenting (and therefore taste testing) all of Mrs Weasley's cooking. Nothing like a side of gammon, slice of very alcoholic cake and some mystery herb from Luna to set yourself up for a morning of terror. It was like the early days in Romania waiting for Charlie to bring up some horrific topic like school or houses or _murder_ that she'd have to somehow avoid.

 _Totalitarian states and genocide aren't seasonal topics that fill people with Christmas joy, so why worry!_ She thought entirely hysterically. _Surely no one will bring it up!_

One thing she had assumed was the calming presence of Charlie. For some odd, illogical reason, she thought he'd be a normal human being and help smooth conversation and show her off to best effect– turns out, not so much. The Weasley boys seemed to have a bit of a "fend for yourself" mentally when it came to their significant others interacting with family. Fleur, Hermione and Percy's insipid other half who Pansy hadn't quite built the energy to talk to yet, all had a slight look of fight or flight like Mrs Weasely was going to interrogate them at any second.

In Ron, this expressed itself in pure ignorance. He didn't really seem to care what Mrs Weasley and Hermione said to one another. Bill, even after a few years of marriage, was so enamored by Fleur that she could accuse his family of being wooden spoons and he wouldn't notice. Ginny was perfectly aware Harry was the favourite, so why bother doing anything?

Charlie, that bastard, was _devilish_.

Polite and charming with Luna and anyone looking mildly awkward, he did not quite take this approach with Pansy. In fact he seemed to find great fun trying to dump her in it. Mostly with terrible snake puns.

"Pansy gets so cold. She's practically cold-blooded." He noted while building the fire and getting an portion of Hermione's brutalizing glare.

"Can I _Slither-in_?" Charlie said straight faced, _in front of his Father_ , sneaking next to her on the couch.

"What does a snake sing at Christmas?" Charlie bellowed with glee cracking open one of the decorative crackers on the mantelpiece. "Sssssssilver bells."

Pansy and the heroic trio looked at him like he was bonkers.

"Guess he does know," said Harry in an undertone to Hermione, whose silent fury risked curdling the eggnog.

With difficulty, Pansy tried to concurrently express a general, mellow pleasantness and a more specific, vivid annoyance towards Charlie who grinned at her as he brandished the cracker, innocent and _oh so pleased_ with himself. An utter madman. Out of sheer hysteria she laughed, which was probably the first time someone had had that reaction to a Christmas cracker joke.

It had been too long since she had seen him like this, and he'd never been this… bold and brilliant and easy. It was like looking into the sun.

There was also another issue, beyond his terrible, cringe-worthy and frankly dangerous jokes. For the past few months in Romania, Pansy had been doing her upmost not to actually _look_ at Charlie. There was the issue with Mona, that smidge of a time where he found her company a bit problematic and his grotesque Gryffindor… _everything_ , so avoiding direct eye contact seemed like the best route.

Now she couldn't stop looking at him. It felt, despite the masses of people crowded around them, that they had a little pocket of privacy. The secrets they had shared hours ago seemed to link them, even more so than their deep affection. She felt she was drinking him in, and the looks he gave her were happy… and hungry.

She wanted to bury herself in him, she wanted-

"Mince pie… Parkinson," Ron offered gruffly, strictly under the eye of Mrs Weasley. There seemed to be some unspoken reproving going on regarding Ron's sullenness.

"No thank you, Ronald," she replied, verses of Weasley is our King swimming behind her eyes. "Excuse me."

She just _wanted_. And this was not the time to want.

Not that Charlie agreed with this.

Pansy took a brief reprieve to the bathroom so she could remember how to breathe and have a delayed hyperventilating fit. Exiting into the small corridor, Charlie walked jovially towards her. In fact, really, he walked through her, politely herding her to the outdoors, where he caught her up against the wall with his arms and his lips and a hello.

"You're the worst."

Charlie hummed, pleased, into her mouth and neck, his face so warm and seeking. His hand worked under her jumper, leg dividing hers, teeth marking skin-

"I thought nice Gryffindor boys didn't do this sort of thing," she pulled towards him, the scrap of black dress and holey Weasley jumper providing poor protection from the cold.

He pulled back, smiled, and said something so filthy Pansy almost gasped – a sound that she usually refused to do on principal.

By this point, Charlie had guided her leg over his hip (Pansy's own behaviour could really only be described as lascivious – Charlie had gone way beyond that point). At her words his wicked smile shifted to something else – a look of wide-eyed, comedic innocence.

"Oh, you're quite right. After all we do have a gentleman's agreement on this don't we? Best get back. Plus, it would be sacrosanct to miss Christmas Quidditch."

And he all but dropped her in the snow, leaving her pink with annoyance and very well distracted.

* * *

The winter sky met the white ground in a muted line. This blank horizon looked back at her in askance. The temptation to fly off was getting greater and greater. Her skin itched with the awareness of this situation, how their hatred rolled off them. The Quidditch pitch was a few miles from the Burrow, and most of the cohort apparated there. In spite of the cold and gusts of freezing air, Pansy suggested to Charlie and Luna that they fly.

"You really don't mind flying over?" Charlie asked.

Charlie hated apparating. He'd never told her, but she always noticed he'd prefer to take a broom or walk than experience the less than pleasant burst of pressure before appearing in a different place.

"Of course not," she replied. "Plus, it will all give them time to discuss this dramatic new development, and whether they should arrest me on the grounds of Ruining Christmas."

Charlie frowned. "Is that really a good idea?"

No, no, it absolutely was not. If she was allowed to use her Slytherin scheming, she'd do everything she could to avoid them having a chance to discuss her and what to do, until she'd pelted them with civility and niceness and convinced them that she won't kidnap Harry and deliver him to the hands of the inevitable next Dark Lord.

"So Luna, what's the likelihood that Hermione will use that clever brain of hers to do away with me before Christmas lunch?"

Luna's eye's peeked out of the top of a voluminous yellow scarf. "Oh, I would think low. Hermione's really nice."

Pansy managed not to release a grunt of dissent. Yes, _very nice_. The girl who set Snape on fire during a Quidditch match in first year. The girl who at age 14 had frightened that Rita Skeeter lady so much she refused to do another interview with Pansy. The girl who permanently scared Marietta's face for revealing to Umbridge the existence of their little club. Yes, _so lovely_. _Really charming. A complete delight._

Hermione Granger was the most terrifying, ruthless witch Pansy had ever encountered.

Pansy was very aware that she was using the waifish girl as the human equivalent of Hadrian's wall, much in the same way she looked after Luna in Romania. She didn't really mind if it made her look weak. She was more than aware at how quickly those three could draw their wands.

"If you're worried about it, maybe you should apologize?" suggested Luna. Charlie had flown ahead a bit, partly out of enthusiasm to get to the game and partly to give them privacy.

"Apologise for what exactly, Luna?" Pansy narrowed her eyes, readying her diatribe on innocence and generalizations.

"Well, you did offer Harry to Voldemort."

"Yes, fair enough. It wasn't a popular move, but I wanted to stop a lot of my friends dying-"

"You have in the past used the M-word to describe Hermione."

"You mean… _militaristic? Mawking? Middling_? _Mauve_?"

"You wrote 87 verses of Weasley is Our King."

"How is that as bad as the other two things? That was a masterpiece that turned against it's owner. You're making me very uncomfortable, Luna."

"You're making yourself uncomfortable by hiding every time one of them comes into the room. You put on a really odd laugh like you're infected with Splegg-legged Gutmushes."

"You made that up. Both bits." Pansy sighed, the rusty Quidditch goals came into view glinting copper in the sunlight. "What's our dear leader, Professor Scamander, doing this Christmas? And please tell me we're not to expect Longbottom today as well. I think I can only cope with five people being repulsed by my presence at any one time."

If Luna blushed, she hid it well. "Scamander is in the field with his Father. They should be in Australia by now. He wrote me a very interesting letter about the beetles there. You really should read it… And no, I don't expect to see Neville today. Ron rather put his foot in it by admitting that the moment Neville found out I was coming, he rescinded his RSVP."

"Coward."

"No, Pansy. He's just trying to make it easier for both of us. He's still a very good friend. And you need to stop changing the subject before I ask you what happened at Draco's. It's in your power to make things, if not better, easier. You hnow, you could probably do it without pointing a wand at anyone."

"That happened onc – okay, more than once… You are right. From the murderous looks they're giving me, I'm really rather spoiling their Christmas. And I do feel awful that I've thrown myself at Charlie's hospitality."

Luna laughed, prettily. "I don't think he much minds. He told me he hadn't been so excited about Christmas since he was eight and received Georgetta the Knitted Dragon."

The teams were awkwardly decided once they arrived, and Pansy was uncomfortably aware of the physical aptitude of the Weasley family. Working with the dragons had built up some muscles but the core strength needed for flight was insane. It was more like swimming than any other sport. You seemed to use all your muscles at once, clenching and bending and pulling yourself through the air. Dismounting at the end of the game was always a painfully embarrassing. On the plus side, at least Quidditch involved minimal conversation and was a marvelous distraction.

Charlie flew into view before her, gently careening through the air with ease. He didn't quite have the elegance of Potter on the broom, though there was something oddly aerodynamic about him. It was like he was part-bluster, part-boy. The devil may care way he behaved in the air – gravity was nothing to fear; it was a friend that filled your stomach with sickening glee as you rushed towards the ground. His smile made everything stop.

He was being an absolute child.

There was one thing that Pansy played by the rules by, and that was flying. Her sense of self-preservation always kicked in making her absolutely aware that the only thing standing between her and death was a cleaning implement. It wasn't that she didn't _like_ flying, it was more that she was going to following the instruction of her flying tutor to the letter. Hands at 12 and 6, wand arm first, back at a careful 45 degrees, heels down.

Charlie buffeted her shoulder with his boot and completed a sickening and slow barrel roll around her, at which point he grabbed her foot to give it a shake.

"Are you alright, Pans?"

"I'm perfectly alright, you lunatic."

He continued to gently nudge her in the air like a drunk moth flirting with a flame.

"I think that counts as a foul," Pansy said crossly, having had enough of being bumped in the air and dodged downwards, though not cross enough that her smile disappeared.

"We haven't started playing Quidditch yet."

Pansy growled at him, emotions frayed, before changing her bared teeth to an uncomfortable grin as Ron glared at her. _Oh gosh, do stop looking like you're about to threaten Charlie._ Once Ron had finally flown off to sulkily guard the battered goals, she gave Charlie a stubborn kick in the back.

"Stop this or I'll might forget what's a bludger and what's a Charlie Weasley."

Like most Wizarding families, Christmas Quidditch was a hallowed tradition. Team Alliance had Charlie (Seeker), Pansy (Beater, naturally), Bill and Fleur (Chasers/Keepers), and Luna (probably a Keeper… if she stopped studying the gnomes lurking at the bottom of the rusted goal posts. On the other side, the Rebellion, Harry had taken his natural position as Captain and Seeker (which Pansy found odd, seeing as Ginny was now playing professionally), George (her equivalent, and equally horrified, Beater), then with sub-team Grumpy Ron, Hermione and Ginny as Chasers/Keepers. It was wordlessly decided all the Chasers would be Keepers on the mutual knowledge that, despite their titanic talents elsewhere, it was unlikely that Luna would concentrate enough to catch the Quaffle and Hermione would concentrate too much to catch it. A team of one chaser made a pretty poor game.

Pansy tried not to smile at Hermione's discomfort on the broom, thinking really she should be expressing sympathy. This was very, very, _very_ difficult seeing as Hermione was her academic superior in most things, except Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, and that latter part of second year where she spent most of the time petrified in the hospital wing. Pansy had rocked that year, despite living in abject terror.

Pansy wasn't too bothered with these thoughts - it wasn't like she was a natural altruist, only an endeavoring one. She was her own, problematic favorite.

Bill and Fleur were, inevitably, brilliant players. Pansy was intensely aware of trying to purposely wrap up her jealousy whenever she looked a Fleur. She was so angular and elegant and purposeful, and reminded her quite stunningly of Daphne. That thought was an odd punch to the gut, but it made smiling and laughing with Fleur easier (" _Ma chere, it is so good to see Charlie wiz such a elegant woman. I do wonder about those wranglers, so_ ").

Charlie's competitiveness had undergone a polite rebrand. Without any words of unpleasantness, Pansy could tell he was leaning into the wind a little harder, trying to make his nimble Cleansweep keep up with the impressiveness of the Firebolt. As always, he looked relaxed, which Pansy could now see as a sign of tension. Perhaps it was a habit from working with the dragons. If you're in a dangerous situation, the trick was to stay calm, at least on the surface. His heart was on the snitch.

The match was heated. In twenty minutes, Ginny had scored twenty points and even Ron had dodged passed Fleur to score a surprising goal. However, Fleur was a past Triwizard champion and furiously competitive, and managed to score a consecutive two goals, one by flying straight threw Ron and the other when someone accidentally passed the ball to Hermione.

George smacked a bludger into Bill's direction causing him to roll off course and drop the Quaffle into Ginny's waiting grip.

"Careful there, old man, can't let your wife do all the work," laughed George.

Pansy had up until then been doing a pretty second-rate job. She felt that smacking a bludger toward any of the opposing team would come across a bit vindictive and murder-y, even though it was technically how you played the game. Also, she felt anchored to Luna who was flying three foot off the ground and watching the gnomes interact at the foot of the goal posts. Abandoning her while a rogue bludger flew about felt dangerous and idiotic.

However, at this vaguely sexist comment Pansy felt marginally justified in whacking the bludger toward George's head. The Weasley dodged, dropping in the air and releasing a very satisfying shriek. Sadly, this was not the most tactical of moves and Ron scored yet another goal.

The game became more frenzied, and Pansy felt herself become gradually more involved. George was safe game to hit the bludger toward, especially as he seemed rather compromised at doing the same thing back to her. Ginny was also okay to aim for purely because there was no way Pansy would end up hitting her. At one point, Pansy considered lobbing the thing at Ron to see if he's face would convey anything other than 'confused and betrayed' but decided to miss on purpose because she did not want to give him the satisfaction.

Forty-Twenty

Forty-Forty

Sixty-Forty

Sixty-Fifty

_And then Harry dove-_

He dodged from the top of the pitch, and streaked past Hermione almost toppling her off her broom. Pansy's heart was in her throat as she saw Charlie _almost fall_ in an attempt to catch up with him. He had been facing the opposite direction and upon hearing everyone's cheer had pulled his broom straight up, turning himself 180 degrees and pelted toward Harry upside-down, his back to the ground.

With sickening excitement Pansy watched them race to an unseen speck in the grass. George raised his arm and aimed the bludger toward them both, causing them to effortlessly disperse and dodge, before collecting together. Charlie was still upside-down on his broom trying to reduce any unnecessary movement that might slow his path. The looked like stars, an impossible, inevitable, deadly path before them.

They were now parallel to the ground, and then, with a flurry they disappeared into the snow.

And

all

was

silent

Slowly the teams crept towards the still snow. Air clasped in their throats and lungs, unmoving.

A victorious hand burst from the ground, holding the golden snitch tight, and a caught breath was released by all.

A black head of hair followed it. Pansy rolled her eyes. _Obviously_.

"Well done, Harry!" yelled Bill, landing next to him and helping him off the ground. "I can't remember when I saw such as close race to the snitch. Probably the Austria-France game in '89."

Harry laughed. "There was a second where I thought I might lose an arm. Charlie really gave me a run for my money… Charlie?"

There was an eruption of snow, and a bright red head finally appeared. A deep rich laugh echoed from his mountainous shoulders as he spat snow out his mouth and shook his wet hair like a dog. Harry offered him a hand up, which Charlie accepted without pause.

Before letting go of his grasp, Charlie brought him into a hug, thumping Harry's shoulder.

"Well played. I don't think anyone's ever beaten me in a race like that before. No wonder I'm now Wood's second favourite Seeker."

"Third favourite," added Ginny, lightly leaping off her broom. "Good game, though. Pansy's got quite an arm on her."

Pansy looked at her, shocked, before realizing this comment was a reward for Charlie's kindness to Harry. Ginny gave her an even look.

Harry looked exceptionally pleased at this comment, as he did about all minor kindnesses. It reminded Pansy's about her first impression of the Boy Who Lived all those years ago – he looked starved, so hungry for love and food, so ready to leap into battle for anyone who would show it to him.

"A silly game," muttered Fleur. "In France we play… I don't know the word. Croquet, but with flying horses. It is much more elegant than this balls nonsense."

Ginny barely suppressed an annoyed groan before declaring it was time for Christmas lunch, and if anyone delayed her further she would have now qualms about Bat Bogeying them to Boxing Day.

* * *

"Making new friends?" Pansy whispered to Charlie as they fell behind the others. He put a large arm over her, tucking her into the corner of him.

"Have to bury the hatchet at some point," he admitted, blue eyes roaming her face. "And it was honestly the best race I've ever had. I even elbowed him pretty severely in the stomach and he still beat me to the snitch."

"Charlie, sometimes I can't quite work out whether you're mad or concussed."

"Most likely a bit of both. I was dropped on the head a lot as a child."

"That's a very Slytherin tactic you employed."

"Hmm, well, it was only a matter of time before you truly corrupted me. And in my defense… he _is_ the Chosen one."

Behind them, Harry and Ron packed up the Quidditch equipment and made a strident effort to walk past Charlie and Pansy as quickly as possible. In those few uncomfortable moments of parallel walking, Pansy made a decision.

She shrugged herself from Charlie, and called to Harry, who looked beyond surprised that she were speaking directly to him.

"Hello. Just before we go back… Pot – _Harry_ , sorry about that awkward situation where I suggested we gave you up to old psychotic demon-face. No hard feelings."

Ron's mouth dropped and looked in danger of dislocating itself.

"Er, sure. Thanks, Pansy." Harry said, blinking uncomfortably.

"It's just that everyone was in danger and there was a lot of murder going on. I was pretty in favor of stopping it. Less in favor of you at the time, but in hindsight I do realize that you lot probably had the moral high ground. Relatively. Though really, in a way I was cutting to the chase because you did end up giving yourself up. Less people might have died if you went along that first-"

" _Do we need to talk about what apologies are, Pansy_?" Charlie said in a stage whisper behind her.

"This isn't an apology, Charlie. I said I'm sorry it was awkward… Okay, it is an apology. I'm just not very… well practiced at them. While we're at it, do you need to apologize or admit anything? Any bad thoughts or unpopular opinions-"

"I think I hear Mum," Charlie interrupted before fireman's lifting Pansy out of there.

Ron and Harry looked at them uncomprehendingly.

"So odd. They're just… so odd."

* * *

Pansy let out a quiet breath. All seemed to be okay.

They'd got to two o'clock, all squashed in the Weasley kitchen prepared for the Christmas meal. Her stomach was practically singing for the glazed turkey and the wealth of vegetables. Everything felt bathed in a warm, buttery glow.

The day hadn't even gone that bad. There had been no harsh words – nothing beyond the painfully hard looks Granger shot her, and she'd even told Harry she was kind of sorry about that one awkward situation. So they were probably going to be best mates now.

(No, not even Pansy was convinced by that. Though it would drive Draco hilariously up the wall if it were true).

She did worry that Hermione was trying to make her head explode with wandless magic – but she was getting on so well with Mrs Wealsey and Fleur that it would probably be too rude. The general atmosphere between her and the three was a chilled silence as they all tried their best to forget the other was there. They just weren't going to talk – which Pansy was more than happy with. Not addressing her years as a raging cunt and that one awkward time on the Inquisitional Squad… and the giving up Harry thing, was more than fine with Pansy. Manouvering round the elephant in the room made it feel reassuringly like a Parkinson Christmas. All they needed was for her brother to become secretly sloshed, her father to retire to bed early and for Talitha and herself to fall out. Loudly.

Pansy imagined what they might be doing at Malfoy Manor at this point. They'd probably all still be asleep, easing into their hangovers for a Christmas of foul and expensive spirits (both alcoholic and emotional). Those with families would have returned home, leaving the stragglers.

Would it have been a pleasant Christmas? Possibly… Their love and loyalty is true. Pansy was not sure how long the joy would have been drawn out. She would have been aware of Draco's marital cage, and they would all repugnantly joke about why they were there. It might have been more wake than Christmas.

Still her heart longed for them. She was not sure whether a Christmas there would have been better than here, she was not sure whether her disappearance was a treachery. Yet there was no denying how her stomach leapt when Charlie smiled at her, and there was something old, stoking in her watching this family be a family. Ignoring the fact that a fair number of them refused to speak or even look at her.

"Mum, there's an owl at the window," said George with his mouth full of turkey.

Mrs Weasley tutted, muttering something about how it's a terrible interruption before realizing the post was for Pansy, and utterly insisting she open it.

"Go on, love, it might be your family."

The first letter was from Draco and was written in his over the top script on a napkin. This was most likely Malfoy's idea of an insult. An ironic and expensive insult when the napkins in Malfoy manor were as creamy and soft as ermine.

Pansy held the cloth in her hand, as her eyes rolled and stomach dropped.

_Parkinson,_

_What the actual fuck._

_I've no idea where this blasted owl will end up, but I want you to come back immediately. I don't want to entertain these people by myself, Pansy. Lucien Bole's vomited in the Venetian urn and Blaise keeps glaring at me with a victorious hatred that suggests he's urinated in my shoes._

_Accusing you of selfishness is pointless as you're just as selfish as I am. You're mine, just as I'm yours. Even if we don't continue with this matrimonial nonsense, I don't want you to spend Christmas alone, addled with gin, ruining you last few good years before your face resembles your soul._

_Even if we live together in sin, or just as friends (because you're my friend Pansy, my best friend, and I don't through that nomenclature round lightly), come back?_

_Merry Christmas, you traitorous heathen._

_Mine, always,_

_DLM_

She would deal with that clusterfuck later. Her feelings were all boxed up like gifts, waiting to be dealt with - the Draco box, the Talitha box, the brother box, the miscellaneous guilt box. She would come to them in time.

The next parchment was from Millicent.

_Merry Christmas, my darling! I hope you're alright. Blaise says you are (in fact his phrase was "better than she's been for the past decade"), and Draco seems to be throwing a right tizz. Theo's of the opinion that Draco deserves whatever has happened to elicit your disappearance. However, I do feel a touch robbed of you on Christmas. I bet you'd be a right dictator. I bet they'd be enforced and organized fun, and eggnog that we simply had to love on pain of death._

_Instead, Draco's on the whiskey, Blaise is on the boys and Theo and I are…. Well, perhaps Christmas is pretty much as it would have been._

_As your best friend, I do feel I need to tell you that whatever the state Draco and yourself are in, his current behaviour with Astoria Greengrass is disgusting. Basically, he's throwing a right strop over you but keeps showing off. He even insinuated how expensive the drapes were. Astoria is irritated and repulsed by him – but only in such a way that you would be if you were in any way interested in someone._

_The child has only been here a day, whereas you've been here since the beginning. I'm not doing anything more than being absolutely lovely to her (for Daphne's memory), but if you wanted to stride in and do something about it you have complete right to._

_I do hope you're alright. Have the best of Christmases wherever you are._

_My love, Millie_

_I shall_ , Pansy thought smugly, warmed by her friend and feeling oddly superior at her Draco-Astoria prediction. There was a slight quake in her soul, part guilt and part knowledge of her tricky position in The Burrow. She put that feeling in another box.

The next envelope was bright, festive red.

"Wait," Luna said, as her fingers tore at the sealed lip. "That looks like a Howle-"

Pansy's life dissolved in front of her in a scream of threats and nightmares.


	26. Chapter 26

For a second, before the screaming began, she thought it was a Christmas card from her Mother. A little card, a quaint offer of Christmas wishes, perhaps a boast that she were with Pellinore and not Pansy.

 

If only it had been.

 

For the length of a breath, it was like the world was silent. The origami lips of the letter fluttered violently through the air, mute to Pansy’s ears. Those words didn’t belong in this house. Those words couldn’t be said in front of this family. Those words, those words, those words. Cutting and cutting and cutting.

 

SLYTHERIN SLUT

 

Red paper slashed before her. The air felt on fire. She looked at Mrs Weasley’s face. Molly had a face that look as if kindness was pocketed in the creases.

MALFOY’S WHORE BITCH

 

Pansy saw the moment she paled and the kindness on Molly’s face fled. A stone woman stared at her.

 

WE KNOW WHAT YOUR FAMILY DID

 

Harry had his wand out. What was he going to do against a letter? You can’t shoot words.

 

WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE, YOU CUN-

 

Charlie had grabbed her and was shouting. He held her close, skin over her ears. She wanted to laugh. This was too loud. Nothing could be louder than this. Nothing can silence this.

 

WE WILL KILL YOU

 

Please. What’s taken you so long?

 

WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE

 

Pansy gave a short, sharp shriek. Not that word. Not that word. Don’t say it, don’t say mu-

 

MURDERER

 

No, no, no-

 

THEIR NAMES ARE ON YOUR CONSIENCE– AMELIA BONES, ALASTOR MOODY, RUFUS SCRIMGEOUR, CEDRIC DIGGORY, BERTHA JORKINS, NYMPHADORA TONKS-

 

So many names. Endless names. Until-

 

FRED WEASLEY

 

More names listed off, on and on, endless. A list of sins. Her sins? That couldn’t be right, could it? Charlie felt frozen around her. She couldn’t look up. She couldn’t look at their faces.

 

The letter made such sweet promises.

 

_We will kill you, Pansy Parkinson. We will have justice and you will die._

 

 

“ _Finito incantatem_ ,” Harry tried, hopelessly. The envelope burst into evangelical flame, too late. It’s message had been delivered.

Arthur Weasley looked terrible. He looked like he could deliver terror. His arms were fixed on the table either side of him, taunt and painful. It was strange to see such a gentle man look so wrought with hurt.

“What,” he strained, eyes fixed on a point none could see. “What was that?”

Pansy let out an odd hiccup. She couldn’t – she couldn’t – what was? What was it? Her eyes were fixed on the untouched feast before them, stomach turning from the smells.

Charlie didn’t let go of her, but his touch was painful. His fingers bent into her bones. She needed that. She needed the pain. She needed to be brought back.

“Is this the first you’ve received, Pansy?” Harry said earnestly, materializing a transparent bag with his wand and stuffing the burnt embers of the Howler into it.

Charlie gave her a little shake, coaxing.

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, but others-“

Harry looked her straight in the eye, the only one in the room who would. “We’ve had reports of two Slytherins receiving death threats.”

Hermione breathed in deeply through her nose. Her eyes looked wild. Was she vindicated? Shocked? Pansy couldn’t tell. The glitter in Hermione’s eyes raised her hackles.

She was in danger. She was going to survive this. She was going to get out of this house and away from this shit. Her brain was going to start cooperating, and the moment she stopped shaking, her body would obey her and take her out of this hellhole. How naïve she thought she’d be safe here of all places, among these people.

They were always going to be the danger.

“They’ve been more than two,” she shot back quickly. If Harry was surprised, he hid it well. “Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode. Practically all the Slytherins in our year and half from the year below. I can write you a list-“

“ _More_?” exclaimed Ron. Hermione’s mouth downturned at his words, a flash of betrayal on her face. “Why didn’t they report it?”

Pansy gave a dry laugh. “You’re going to do something about it? I can’t imagine a few angry letters come up high on the Auror’s to do list. The others made it sound like a joke. They were _bragging_ about receiving them. I didn’t know it was like….” Pansy couldn’t finish. She forced herself to look at Charlie whose blue eyes bore into her impassively. “You don’t believe it do you? Please say you don’t-“

Remembering himself, Charlie gathered her to him. She buried herself in the safe darkness of Charlie, wishing she could disappear into him, safe and warm. He kissed her hair. “No, never. I know you, Pansy-“

“YOU KNOW?” Arthur exploded. His face was red and raging. There was nothing Pansy had seen that made her fear quite like a calm man losing his temper. “YOU KNOW? Son, you kept who she was damned quiet and _you don’t know_. How can you bring someone associated with them to our house? Whose name has now been linked to Fred’s?”

The room chilled as these words settled. A small hand snuck onto Pansy’s lap and gave it a comforting squeeze. She couldn’t look at Luna to thank her. She had to keep her eyes on the danger.

“Mr Weasley,” Harry said gravely, looking terribly grown up in a room of sombre, agitated Weasleys. “We’ve investigated everyone tied to Voldemort. I can promise you that Pansy had nothing to do with Fred’s death-“

“-I can’t fucking handle this.” George stood up, all pretense of a peaceful Christmas gone. He looked pale. “Get yourself fucking together, Charlie.”

He walked doggedly to the front door and left. Before Charlie could follow, Bill signaled to him to stop and followed George out into the snow, Fleur and Ginny a few steps behind him.

I’m sorry, thought Pansy. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But would they know what she was apologizing for?

“Parkinson,” Arthur sniffed. His anger looked so at odds with his jovial woolen jumper and plate of brussel sprouts. Pansy’s presence had stopped that man being happy. She had stopped him mid-joy and made him think of ghosts. “I know the name. The law firm? The eldest son died, didn’t he? _He_ was tied to the dark lord. What happened to the middle one?”

He already knows.

“He’s incarcerated, Mr Weasley. Pellinore is in Azkaban.” Pansy replied, mouth dry. She didn’t want to lie to him. She wanted to say more. She wanted to defend Pell. She wanted to defend them all.

“And she’s got nothing to do with this? You’re telling me, Harry, she has nothing to do with their deaths?”

Harry looked at him evenly. Two high spots of colour rising on his cheeks.

“Dad, stop it,” Charlie growled. “She’s innocent. She had nothing to do with Fred, or any of it.”

Percy gave her a look like a scalpel. “So you had nothing, _nothing at all_ , to do with the Deatheaters?”

“I was in Slytherin. We all had something to do with the Death Eaters. Usually genetics.” She bit her tongue. That was stupid. “I’m so sorry, Mrs Weasley, I’m so, so sorry about having this ruin your Christmas-“

“It’s always that argument, isn’t it?” interrupted Hermione, her eyes bright (her tail, probably, bushy). Molly looked silently away from them, unable to take it in. “It’s what all of you say – ‘They were my friend, brother, parent, but I didn’t do anything.’ Crabbe and Goyle? Sounds like they were sickening in seventh year. What did you do to stop them?-“

“- _I tried_ -“

“ _Sure_. You might not have raised a wand to anyone, Pansy, but you definitely raised some words.” Hermione rolled up her sleeve. The expanse of her arm now the only thing anyone could look at. “All of you, that whole house. Maybe you were too cowardly to be directly involved in any slaughter, but you gave your hatred, didn’t you? You fostered that… thinking?”

Pansy stared at the scar on Hermione had revealed beneath her sleeve. It was stark and ugly, carved with a mad hand. _Mudblood_.

Her eyes swam with tears. “I’m – I’m –“

“What? You’re little more than an ignorant racist, with your limited and barbaric friends. No wonder you’re receiving these notes. What do you expect from your animosity? Your house… and the denial, disgusts me.”

“It’s more complicated than that. They’re not… we’re not all bad. They’re just scared.”

Hermione looked like she could laugh. “What would justify any of it?”

Charlie whispered to her. “You don’t have to. We can go. Just go.”

But it was an entirely fair question. One she should have answered long ago. How much easier that would have been.

Pansy took a breath. It still wasn’t easy to say.

She’d run from this word. Fled from it. These people weren’t kin. How could she possibly trust them with it?

A vision of Pellinore flashed before her, his limbs shaking, eyes bright in the darkness. You can never tell, he said, I’m going to try my best to keep you safe. But you can never, ever tell them what you are.

Was she betraying his sacrifice? Handing out her secrets like sweets?

She glanced at Charlie, who looked so calm and trusting at her. Her being here compromised him. His tricky relationship with his family made even more difficult.

“It’s complicated…” She stopped. She had to be sure this was the right thing. It was the right thing. “Because I’m a half-blood, and… so were many of us.”

 

 

 

 

How could she explain?

Slytherins protect their own.

We knew the sins of the previous generation. Some of us were that sin.

If the Weasleys had not been such social pariahs, perhaps they would know the widespread gossip of Talitha’s indiscretion with a Muggle. Pansy never asked any questions about her biological Father. Her real one was distant, but decent. She didn’t need another. There was a time where she saw her Muggle grandparents. Sweet people, confused at why it was so difficult to see their granddaughter, at her tales of broomsticks and potions and how she couldn’t wait to have a wand. She’d sit on their floor eating jam sandwiches, watching _The Wombles_ as they cooed over her and how she’d grown.

It was most the peaceful time she had ever known. She missed them. Yet it had soon become apparent how foolish it would be to keep them in her life. Maybe now…

She knew the danger in her veins. Perhaps that’s why she had been named for a fragile flower, rather than a hero like Pellinore and Perseus.

Oh, how Perseus had hated her. The Halfblood in their midst, muddying their family with further scandal. He was a true believer. He saw the romance in Tom Riddle’s world, and sought it before many others did. Pansy was glad he was dead, just as she was glad he taught her to be the one to hate first. Pellinore taught her how to protect. He taught her family, loyalty, and he had been punished for it. He had gone to the Death Eaters to buy her safety. Someone was bound to tell. If he made himself useful, perhaps he could spare her and her mother.

How could Pansy explain the existence of Perseus and Pellinore? To her the Slytherins were divided between them. The ones who truly were full of hatred –the Crabbe’s, the Goyles – and those who were greyer… Malfoy was happy to exchange kisses at school, but back then he would never promise her a future. He looked down on her parentage. Though he would spend a week removing curses from his house before she visited in the summer.

How could she explain the strange hierarchy and hypocrisy of her house? They talked a good game. Some of them really did hate Muggleborn.

There was a horrid difference – our blood traitors versus their blood traitors. It was difficult to repeat the racist words of your parents when those very words referred to your friends.

It was, sometimes, dangerous not to repeat those words. Might as well use them towards those where no love was lost.

Pansy knew they didn’t deserve forgiveness. Pansy wasn’t sure they deserved to have their reasons explained.

 

 

 

 

Yet she tried, with poorly chosen words and an earnest tongue.

Pansy hoped she wasn’t justifying or excusing… she just wanted them to know her friends, her troubling, selfish, egotistical friends – the best and bravest and worst people she knew – didn’t deserve to die.

From the looks on their faces. She didn’t think she was succeeding.

“Draco Malfoy knew you were a Halfblood… and didn’t care?” Ron said, flabbergasted.

“Not care… not quite. He got over it. When it comes to friendship, you only have to be nice or interesting. And I’m… one of them.”

“It just… doesn’t make a huge amount of sense. Draco’s a tosser-“

“Exactly. I think hypocrisy really is the least of his sins. I was useful, I was his ally, I was in his house. Any one of them was reason enough to feel loyal to me.”

“How lucky that you were in that position,” Hermione added, words dripping with sarcasm.

“Yes, I’m incredibly lucky that my brother – brave, stupid Pellinore who had no issue with Muggles – joined the Deatheaters to protect me and now faces life imprisonment. Golly gosh, it’s just swell.”

The pair glared at each other.

Charlie had tried to intervene in these moments, but it was more than apparent that Pansy could hold her own, even if her words were not helpful to her.

“And what, hiding the fact you were a Halfblood excuses your behaviour? You were part of Umbridges inquisitorial squad! The Slytherins tortured other students in seventh year!”

“Yes, because we were _oh so_ included in your little band? So what, we weren’t learning Defense Against the Dark Arts in class? Perhaps having lessons that didn’t involve mauling each other was safer? To us the Inquisitorial Squad was a nice addition to the CV, especially seeing that most of the Prefects had gone rogue with a secret, out of hours club! And we tried not to torture people. We did a lot of pretending in seventh year.”

“That’s… broadly true,” added Luna, who was the only one to dig into the Christmas meal and was upending the cranberry sauce on the glazed carrots.

“So you behaved like a Blast-ended Skrewt because we didn’t let you join the our gang, after you’d all spent so many years being polite and not at all suspicious?”

“You’re just angry that Millicent punched you during a duel in second year. Which is entirely understandable behavior on her part. You’d fought a three headed dog and she’d just about learned _Lumos_.”

Hermione made a sound that was practically a growl.

 

 

With difficulty Charlie had stopped clutching Pansy to him. Having announced her parentage, she was visibly bristling. Waiting for an attack.

She’d told him last night. Along with the momentary engagement to Malfoy. The events of seventh year – the Slytherin’s own guerilla warfare against their own, something touched upon, an evasion for how they protected themselves from the Carrows.

And this. Her disappeared, Muggle father.

An odd bit of Charlie wanted to laugh. Partly, because – of course. Pansy made Muggle references constantly. It was as if she were trying to hide in plain sight. But mostly because… why would anyone have an issue with being part Muggle? So many were – yet that was not the world in which she, nor Charlie now he thought about it, had been brought up.

The Weasleys loved Muggles. Their inventiveness, naivety. The wizarding world felt so small and so close to this big, giant thing that the Muggle universe was. Hearing Hermione and Harry talk about dishwashers and phones and the insanity that was the _internet_ , blew his mind. It was a world that he rubbed shoulders with but could never understand. It felt like they had a second language they were born knowing. They could easily slip back into not using magic in public or watching their words.

It was not often he thought of the flipside. How confusing and dangerous it was for Muggleborns, even despite centuries of turmoil.

And Pansy, a Halfbood in a house that prided itself on the pure. He could picture her, too stubborn to do anything but survive. She would lie and cheat and protect… would he have done it very differently?

He didn’t know what to say to his Mother. She had not spoken a word. His Father clutched her hand, and Charlie felt the weight of his betrayed gaze.

 

Hermione stood up, a retort boiling on her lips.

It was stolen from her breath with a gasp. A white shadow interrupted her– for a second it looked like the winter snow had drifted through the wall or a Christmas ghost had joined their unhappy party.

The bickering stopped immediately as a pale Patronus flew across the room, it’s swallow wings beating madly.

The bird halted in front of Harry. Pansy could hear the pant of the messenger even before the words flew out his mouth.

“Harry, Anthony Goldstein reporting. There’s another attack. You were right, they’re after them. They’re after the Slytherins. It’s not looking good. They have the beast #647. It looks like they’re heading for-“

With an invisible gust the bird swept away on the air, taking the rest of the message with it. Pansy didn’t know enough about Patroni. Why would the message end? Did it stop there, at the most important part?

Charlie grabbed her arm – what? What did he think she was going to do? Run out of here like a Gryffindor?

“What the bloody hell is going on today. It’s Christmas!” shouted Ron.

“Yes, Harry,” said Pansy coldly. Very slowly, she moved her hand downward and grabbed the reassuring smoothness of her wand. “What is going on?”

Charlie had not removed his hand from her wrist. Distantly she wondered if she could bring herself to curse it off.

Harry gave a struggled sigh. Digging his hands into his hair.

“Harry, what is it? Is this what you’ve been hiding?” echoed Hermione, having the indecency to sound betrayed. “Where’s the attack?”

“Speak quickly,” Pansy added dangerously.

“There has been a number of odd events recently. We couldn’t link them up. A band of Dementors gone rogue. An attempt, we suspect, to steal one of the Romanian dragons. It’s been top secret…” Harry added, angrily, looking at Hermione with what looked like an apology. “Because the evidence has been pointing to… difficult places. Recently, a manticore has been listed as missing in Persia. We’ve had reason to believe it’s tied to the threats sent to Slytherins and other suspected sympathizers. Some people think justice hasn’t been fully served.” Harry rolled this off quickly, bringing out a thimble-sized medallion from his pocket. He lifted it briefly to the light, trying to scry something in it’s midst.

“Dammit, where are you Anthony.”

“Who was Anthony trailing?” asked Ron, voice serious.

“One of the Slytherins who had been receiving threats. No one had taken it seriously, so he didn’t have much back up. I think the name was Lucien Bole? We should probably head to his house, quickly. I’m sorry, Mrs Weasley-“

“You idiot,” hissed Pansy, eyes wild. “Really Grade A sleuthing. How the hell have you got this far? Lucien isn’t at home. He’s with the other Slytherins. This is an attack on everyone. They’re at _Malfoy’s-_ “ She tried to wrest her hand from Charlie. “ _Let go._ I need to go to them. They’re in danger.”

“I’m coming too-“

She didn’t have time. They didn’t have time.

With violence she turned - gripping her wand – Charlie grabbing her – tearing herself through the world and apparating back to Malfoy Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Note: So... I've been planning this twist for very, very long time. Literally a handful of chapters in (hence the odd references to Charizards and whatnot). Thank you for sticking with this story, realise I'm far from the speediest writer. I'm keen that the chapters are hitting the right notes, and I hope they are.
> 
> Thanks so much again for all the wonderful comments. I'm going to do my best to get as much of the next chapter out before the new year until then, hope you all have a bloody lovely Christmas!


	27. Chapter 27

There was a release of pressure – and suddenly the stuffy scents of the Burrow were gone, all replaced by the sharp tang of snow.

Malfoy Manor assailed her senses. It felt like a dream she could not wake up from.

The building was obscured by a high black gate. The slow drift of Draco’s moving topiary blurred in front of Pansy’s panicked gaze. For a mad moment, it felt like the building was a trapped like animal in a cage. She couldn’t immediately identify what was wrong – her mind and heart were moving too quickly.

The Manor was the wrong shape. One of the towers looked bigger, greyer and bright. The air smelt heavy.

Her muscles seized and she leaped for the gate, dragging it open.

The house – the west tower - was aflame.

“Charlie-“ she shouted, turning for him, wanting him to reassure her before she bolted down the drive.

She heard him gasp. He was on the floor shaking, lungs failing to gather air, hand grabbing aimlessly at his left arm. His blue eyes looked down furious as he tried to gain control of himself. Frustration and panic bore through him, and he couldn’t seem to look at Pansy.

A flare of recognition and frustration flew up. It was a panic attack. She knew he avoided apparating, but she had not thought it this bad. Who knows what was happening to her friends – _and yet_ – her heart was torn.

She knew what it felt like to have your body revert against you, convincing your mind it’s dying over a few flutters of anxiety.

She steeled herself from the house. She needed Charlie. She needed his help to save her friends. But also she needed him, whole and healthy, if she were ever going to…

She drew her wand to help him, and stopped.

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy recognized the symptoms.

It didn’t really feel like panic. It felt like an unpretty death; muscles and lungs rebelling against you, blood beating – no, blood drowning you out.

She’d only had one panic attack, just the one. She did exactly what they were all taught to do – use magic and wish it away.

It was in sixth year on a day when she was feeling especially smug. Hermione was simmering away in her textbook, following some maelstrom quibble with the pitiable ginger one. Pansy smirked. Her Transfiguration paper had come seventh in the year (and second in Slytherin) and her love life was going swimmingly compared to gruesome Granger. Her neat black nails drummed a jaunty tune as she grinned wholesomely at the room.

Everyone who was anyone knew her news. Malfoy and she had become… intimate. The pride felt searing. She – a _Halfblood_ – with the darling of the Malfoys. It was better than any romance in _Witches Weekly_.

It was more than the satisfaction that others knew, it was the information she had become privy to. Her hands had traced the skull on Draco’s arm – an ugly thing, but on him… there was something about his uptight, flawless angles that the muss of ink improved.

A second skull. Two men now branded. Two men who had promised to keep her safe. She remembered making her lips smile at them, pretending that she felt that way now – _safe_ \- pretending that all this was normal.

Of course, Draco received the Dark Mark not for herself but for his family. Yet it must mean something. This bond between them… for him to go against the Dark Lord’s hatred of Mudbloods to be with her?

Not everyone knew her history. Enough suspected.

The smile tasted like Butterbeer on her lips, and it only widened when Draco entered the room. She should have played it cooler, given him a chilling, knowing glance, but the weeks had built up inside her. Weeks of intimacy and happiness and thrill. The love she had felt for him all these years was like dormant gasoline in her blood, ignited finally from his attention.

As always, Draco made an entrance. There was something in the way he paused just before he entered a room, lengthened he gate and made his cloak sweep slightly that made him hard to be ignored. You ended up wondering why your eyes always drifted to him. There was little about him that wasn’t a performance.

Draco sat three seats away, sharing a desk with Daphne rather than herself.

This was fine. Normal. They didn’t have to spend all their time together.

“Daphne, what are you doing this Saturday?” Draco drawled, not looking up as he began his notes.

“Heading to Hogsmeade, just like everyone else. Obviously.” Daphne replied, too beautiful and too sharp to deal with most nonsense boys threw at her. However… Pansy was sure there was an extra light in her gaze, an interest to see where this was going.

“I was wondering if you’d be so kind to escort me to Madam Puddifoot’s? I don’t really feel like hanging out with the rabble this weekend. I’d rather spend time and attention on someone who interests me.”

Only then did Draco look up. It was a practiced look – all grey eyes and pale angles. The boy was a clown most days but he could pierce you with an intensity that bordered on the profound.

“Um,” relied Daphne, unsubtly shifting her gaze to Pansy.

Pansy kept her face frozen and facing forward. She wouldn’t react until she needed to.

“I think you’d rather spend some time with our dear leader… especially as… you’re together?” said Daphne in an undertone.

Pansy hated the question in her voice. It was a fact, a non-fiction, a truth irreversible.

Draco gave a dismissive shrug. “Pansy and I have an agreement. We’ve spoken and… we’ve had our fun. Time for something more serious.” His features contorted into something lecherous, his hand reaching to push back his hair. It was a habitual movement; he had an odd pride in how flawless and large his forehead was. Potter-related narcissism.

For a moment, Pansy was sure her heart had stopped. It felt as immovable as her face. He had… for all intents and purposes broken up with her (broken her, broken them) in public. The safety of society meant that there was no way Pansy was going to go against him. There was no way. He had robbed her of her grief.

The effort to stay motionless became too much. Pansy felt her lungs quiver and suddenly knew what was happening. The Transfiguration notes began to swim on the page. The panic and awfulness gripping her heart.

 _Nulliqum_ , she said to herself silently, desperately. Nulliqum. Nulliqum.

Pansy had never been able to do wordless magic, but she suddenly the power flow through her in a wave. The word came to her, bubbling up from her memories….

Pellinore on the ground sobbing. But it was more than grief. His body was fighting him. Lungs working uselessly to draw in air. It was like he was trying to vomit, trying to expel the thing the Death Eaters had made him do this time.

With a shaking hand he had taken his wand to his throat and tried to say that word again and again up until the spell finally caught, and his lungs eased.

As with Pellinore, Pansy’s panic suddenly dissipated. She felt… cloudy but clear. Looking around her nothing seemed to matter. If Draco had noticed her serenity… well, she couldn’t even bring herself to mind. In fact, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open.

The hour past slowly and she made her way out of the classroom. She didn’t think anyone followed her. All she cared for was the increasing tightening in her chest and that distant warning Pellinore had given her about the spell. “ _Nulliqum_ is a life saver… in certain situations. Say you feel the attack coming on but you cannot be incapacitated at this time or show weakness, it can clog up that worry. Pansy, I hope you never have to use it. If you do, just know it lasts probably an hour and it only delays what is coming. Magic and emotion are uneasy bedfellows. The panic attack will happen. And it will be worse.”

Pansy spent the rest of the day in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, the panic expelling from her was exhausting and terrifying. She had vomited at least twice. She felt like she didn’t exist. All she knew was the closed door of the cubicle and the weak, shaking of her arms on the walls as she tried not to collapse onto the damp floor. Myrtle’s sarcastic comments didn’t phase her. Pansy remembered thinking she might end up haunting the bathroom even longer than the insipient ghost. She didn’t wish for Draco in those moments, only for the pain to stop.

 

* * *

 

 

Pansy looked at the wand in her hand. She could fix Charlie in a second.

 

 

Gentling herself, she settled by his side in the snow, her woolen tights getting soggy and damp.

“Hey, shush there, it’s okay-“

“You,” Charlie tried to gasp in the air. “You. Need. To go-“

She almost listened to him. Instead, Pansy gave a casual shrug, her mind dissolving in panic. If she couldn’t help him in one hundred and twenty seconds, she’d run. She’d have to get them.

“Not without my partner in crime. Anyway, I’m sure the Scooby Gang will on their merry way in no time. Plus reinforcements.”

Oh god. As if. They’re too headstrong to go back to the Auror office and too full of bickering and panic to come straight here. They were doomed.

Pansy gave Charlie a serious look. She held his ankle for a second – to try to give him comfort without crowding him, and placed her other hand in front of his face.

“I need you to do something for me. It’s very, very important.”

Charlie nodded. “Anything.”

“I need you, using the power of your lungs, to blow my hand away from your face.”

He looked at her idiotically. Confusion and anger warring on his face as his lungs failed to get air. The way his body was formed, creased over with panic was exactly how she felt. Natural, really, for a body to reject apparition. What was more unnatural that suddenly being somewhere you weren’t meant to be?

Bizarrely, he guffawed, a choking laugh clogging up his throat. He pursed his lips and blew.

Pansy pretended her hand was a weightless as a kite, and moved it back the length of a breath.

“Good,” she said. “Again.”

A few times more and his breath had returned to normal. He gulped in air as if he was quenching a thirst. Pansy looked away as he blinked away the wetness in his eye.

“I’m so sorry, Pans,” Charlie said after a moment. Shame reddened his ears and there was an undertone of fury in his voice. “I… Merlin, I splinced once and-“

“Hush, it’s fine. Do you want to stay here, or can you help me?”

“Help you. Always.”

Pansy wasn’t sure, but even in this state there was something so calming and capable about him. His blue gaze held hers, unrelenting. He wasn’t going anywhere. If she trusted him around dragons, she should trust him with her friends.

She helped him up, and without a second look at the burning tower, they ran towards it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Charlie got to the front door first and leapt through – she half expected him to stop, to say something to her or at least check to see where to go. The manor was a pretension of labyrinth corridors, and Charlie would have no idea where to head.

He didn’t, he burst through without hesitation.

He was running to help her friends. In that moment her heart felt so full of him that she didn’t realize why he didn’t need directions.

 

All they had to do was follow the screams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There was an explosion and flash from the top of the stairway. Pansy ducked away from it and followed Charlie straight into the drawing room.

Last Pansy had seen it the room had been brimming with friends and laughter.

 _Now_ –

          - Three towering figures stood in the center of the room drawing spells and wards around them. Darkness and light danced in a shadow play of horror.

There were bodies on the floor ( _no, don’t look_ ). One person crouched behind a fallen cabinet on the closest side of the room, there were others further away. One was screaming. ( _No, don’t listen, not now_ ).

“ _Stupefy_!” Charlie yelled at one of the figures. The flash of red missed, and was returned by a hideous jet of green.

Pansy threw herself on top of Charlie, forcing him to the ground. She needed to stop him cursing people without having something to hide behind. They landed tangled, almost on top of-

“Pansy,” Blaise gasped. “You’re here. _You’re alive._ Fucking Merlin, Pans. They arrived out of nowhere.”

Pansy clambered over Charlie, keeping her head below the edge of the upturned cabinet, and grabbed Blaise by the collar. She hugged him briefly. From the other side of the room, Marcus and Lucien relentlessly unfurled curse after curse at the intruders. _Good_.

“What’s going on? Who are they?” she hissed.

“Who’s this?” Blaire replied wildly, jabbing his wand hand at Charlie.

Charlie stuck his freckled hand out. “A Weasley. Obviously.”

“Good Griffins,” Blaise replied, looking uncharacteristically shocked. “What kind of stable boy fantasy have you been living in Romania, Parkinson? It’s like looking at a virile Ron Weasley with muscle implants. Ron the Rugged.”

“ _Petrificus Totalus!_ ” Pansy yelled, aiming at the tallest figure who let out a groan as his body hit the ground, limbs bound about him. “Is this really the time? His name is Charlie. Charlie, forgive Blaise. He’s ill-humoured in life and death situations. Wants to make sure his last line is a funny one.”

Pansy leant her head out of the corner of the cabinet, trying to fathom the fallen attacker’s face. The cloaks they were wearing looking as if they were made out of some kind of shifting shadow. It pooled about them like cloth knitted out of fog; a complex kind of obscuring charm.

His face… For a second, Pansy had the horrid feeling she was looking at a Death Eater. From beneath the fallen shadow a mask stared back at her, blank and white. It was angular and as pale as snow. It’s only feature was two dark eyes and a grim, hard-lined mouth. The impassive face bore into her with blank-eyed judgment.

“I don’t-I don’t know who they are. But the messages. I think they must have sent the death threats. Are they Aurors?”

“No,” replied Charlie, just as Pansy muttered “We don’t know.”

They gave each other a hard stare.

“The others are going to get the Aurors and come here, Pansy. I know it.”

“When has Potter ever waited for back up in the past? It’s a bad sign, Charlie. I’m not holding my breath. I can’t imagine anyone more angry that we’re walking about free than the Aurors.”

Blaise grabbed her arm. “I’m not even going to ask how Potter’s involved. Frankly, I don’t think I care. We have them six to three now you’re here. Well, five - Baddock’s the screamer. Once they’re down, is the way out clear? Can we make a run to the edge of the grounds to apparate?”

“What about the others? Aren’t there more people here? Pansy said it was-“ Charlie began, but Pansy didn’t hear him. Blaise’s eyes were wide with fear. He was never a fighter. They looked after each other, but they were never fighters.

“Yes, you can go,” she said to him. From the corner of her eye, she could see Charlie leaning out to deliver another spell and her heart jolted in warning. She didn’t want him to put himself in danger, and he was, for people he didn’t even know.

Blaise… She wouldn’t judge Blaise.

“Before you go –tell me where the others are. Millicent, Theo, Draco – has anyone escaped?”

“Yes, a few got out. Those lot – they’re upstairs. Something else is happening up there. But I don’t know what, Pansy. Wait, you’re not… you’re not _staying_?”

She didn’t have a chance to answer. The last two attackers left standing threw a Reducto spell in their direction, blasting the cabinet to pieces and the three against the wall.

Her head thudded back, luckily into the drapery. Shit, shit, shit – she managed to get enough air into her lungs before realizing that the third intruder had been uncursed and was pointing his wand in her direction.

“That’s her. That’s one of them. _Parkinson_!”

“No, you fucking don’t,” muttered Blaise, debris falling from his neck as he raised his head. “ _Balbutio_!”

The Babbling curse hit the attacker straight in the chest, causing him to yell “Unearthly Purses!” rather than the intended curse.

Blaise, the clever boy, used it as his signature move. There was many house debates where Blaise would interrupt a rival’s wisely chosen words with the ridiculous sentences of the Babbling Curse.

Before the other two could move, Charlie threw a disarming curse towards the attacker, just as Marcus and Pansy had an unfortunate moment of synchronicity from opposite sides of the room.

“CONFRINGO,” they both yelled.

The spells met in the middle and ripped the air with fire. It looked like the creation of a small star in the middle of the room. One of the attackers caught aflame in a horrifying plumage of fire and panic.

The river of fire raged from fireplace to window, dividing the Slytherin groups. Pansy searched wildly for Malcolm Baddock who had been prostrate on the ground. Lucien was tending to him, issuing a stream of water from his wand in preparation to move him. Pansy almost choked with fear. Seeing them behind the dancing flames was her worst nightmare. The Slytherins had faced danger but, mostly, had managed to dance away from it. The threat was always there, yet their maneuverings and cowardice had kept them at a physically safe distance. Now they were here. The danger was in their homes. Pansy knew they would not all escape this alive.

It was all the worse when their enemy was vindictive and intelligent.

One of the hooded figures ignored their flaming ally, instead reaching for the Floo Powder on the mantelpiece. Their hands wildly pushed the porcelain dish upon the flame, fanning them into a bright and lucid green.

“No, no-“ screamed Pansy, realizing what was happening. The temperature in the room instantly dropped, the flames made safe by the Floo.

A woman’s voice, a stranger, screeched over the noise, “67 Cat’s Alley,” and the three were gone.

 

 

 

 

“Malcolm,” Pansy knelt next to Lucien, who was swiftly tending to the damage on Malcolm’s arm.

She wanted to joke with her fallen friend, tease him that he’d probably have ended up in this state anyway with the amount of alcohol he had drunk the previous night. She wanted to remind him that this was a shallow wound compared to the way he had embarrassed himself in front of Astoria.

She couldn’t. Malcolm’s face was pale and his eyes were wide with panic. Where his arm used to be now lay a gory mess. Lucien’s face was serious. He looked Pansy in the eye, unable to communicate anything more as his lips were busy holding Malcolm together with spell after spell.

Marcus was scrabbling on the floor, trying to find more Floo Powder. Swearing punctuated his breath.

“Flint, stop that. There’s another fireplace across the corridor in the dining room. There will be more Floo there.”

“There could be more of these bastards there for all we know. We should make a run for it and apparate-“

“Malcolm won’t make it that far. I’m going to float his body while Lucien concentrates on the arm. You lot go ahead and make sure it’s clear. It sounds,” Pansy gulped. “It sounds like the fighting is further along the house.”

Flint looked furious at the thought of waiting, but he did. Pansy cast a Locomotor charm on Malcolm, cringing as he whimpered in the air. If only she’d had time to make him a draught of something…

They escorted him to the next room, the shouts and bangs muffled between the walls and ceiling a reminder that they were still in danger, that their friends might be dying. As if sensing Flint’s impatience, Charlie carefully positioned himself between him and the fireplace, ensuring that Malcolm and Lucien were the first to enter the emerald flames.

Lucien continued the endless stream of sing song spells that was keeping Malcolm together, his eyes wide with panic and concentration. Pansy squeezed his arm briefly before they went, not sure who she envied in this position – Lucien getting to escape first, but with the weight of Malcolm’s life in is hands? Or them, doomed to stay and face more death?

Charlie kept his face impassive as Flint followed them through. She could feel the dislike and incomprehension radiate from him as Flint, able bodied, crouched in the fireplace.

Malcolm cast his Bludger-crumpled face towards her as he ducked into the chimney.

“Don’t do anything reckless, Parkinson,” he muttered, casting the Floo down, not waiting for a response.

Pansy passed the china box of powder to Blaise. “Hop in.”

Blaise, his violet cravat wonky and woebegone, looked at her in askance and then shifted his gaze to Charlie. A self-conscious sneer fell upon his lip.

“Shouldn’t you be giving this to him? It’s not even his fight.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow, looking insulted. A crash and a scream echoed from upstairs. The fear in Blaise’s face distorted further.

“Surely the Malfoys have some kind of defense system, how could this –“

“Defense system?” Charlie replied, wildly. “This isn’t Hogwarts.”

“He made them dormant before the party,” Pansy replied, her heart sinking. In fact, he made them dormant long before the party. He was very careful to get rid of anything that might react dangerously to her Muggle blood. Didn’t want Mudblood on the carpet, he claimed.

“We need to go find them, save whoevers left,” Pansy whispered. “Go, Blaise, quickly.”

For a moment, Blaise looked tired. Utterly worn out. The fear he had been running from for so long in Europe had finally materialized. It was here killing his friends, murdering his darlings.

He sighed. “Not without you, Parkinson.”


End file.
